THE 
MYSTERIOUS 
RIDER 

ZANE  GREY 


Prof.    W.    A.    Setchell 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 


THE 

MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

A  NOVEL 

BY 

ZANE  GREY 


AUTHOR  OP 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST, 

THE  U,  P.  TRAIL, 
RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE, 
THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT,  ETC, 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 

By  arrangement  with  Harper  &  Brothers 


GO 


^*^^*^NTU 


Cbpyright.  1921,  by  Harper  &  Brothwi 
SMnted  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PS  3513 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    RIDER 


CHAPTER  I 

A  SEPTEMBER  sun,  losing  some  of  its  heat  if  not 
its  brilliance,  was  dropping  low  in  the  west  over  the 
black  Colorado  range.  Purple  haze  began  to  thicken  in 
the  timbered  notches.  Gray  foothills,  round  and  billowy, 
rolled  down  from  the  higher  country.  They  were  smooth, 
(sweeping,  with  long  velvety  slopes  and  isolated  patches  of 
'aspens  that  blazed  in  autumn  gold.  Splotches  of  red  vine 
colored  the  soft  gray  of  sage.  Old  White  Slides,  a  moun 
tain  scarred  by  avalanche,  towered  with  bleak  rocky  peak 
above  the  valley,  sheltering  it  from  the  north. 

A  girl  rode  along  the  slope,  with  gaze  on  the  sweep  and 
range  and  color  of  the  mountain  fastness  that  was  her 
home.  She  followed  an  old  trail  which  led  to  a  bluff 
overlooking  an  arm  of  the  valley.  Once  it  had  been  a 
familiar  lookout  for  her,  but  she  had  not  visited  the  place 
of  late.  It  was  associated  with  serious  hours  of  her  life. 
Here  seven  years  before,  when  she  was  twelve,  she  had 
made  a  hard  choice  to  please  her  guardian — the  old 
rancher  whom  she  loved  and  called  father,  who  had  in 
deed  been  a  father  to  her.  That  choice  had  been  to  go 
to  school  in  Denver.  Four  years  she  had  lived  away  from 
her  beloved  gray  hills  and  black  mountains.  Only  once 
since  her  return  had  she  climbed  to  this  height,  and  that 
occasion,  too,  was  memorable  as  an  unhappy  hour.  It  had 

i 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 


been  three  years  ago.  Today  girlish  ordeals  and  griefs 
seemed  back  in  the  past:  she  was  a  woman  at  nineteen 
and  face  to  face  with  the  first  great  problem  in  her  life. 

The  trail  came  up  back  of  the  bluff,  through  a  clump  of 
aspens  with  white  trunks  and  yellow  fluttering  leaves, 
and  led  across  a  level  bench  of  luxuriant  grass  and  wild 
flowers  to  the  rocky  edge. 

She  dismounted  and  threw  the  bridle.  Her  mustang; 
used  to  being  petted,  rubbed  his  sleek,  dark  head  against 
her  and  evidently  expected  like  demonstration  in  return, 
but  as  none  was  forthcoming  he  bent  his  nose  to  the  grass 
and  began  grazing.  The  girl's  eyes  were  intent  upon  some 
waving,  slender,  white-and-blue  flowers.  They  smiled  up 
wanly,  like  pale  stars,  out  of  the  long  grass  that  had  a 
tinge  of  gold. 

" Columbines,"  she  mused,  wistfully,  as  she  plucked 
several  of  the  flowers  and  held  them  up  to  gaze  wonder- 
ingly  at  them,  as  if  to  see  in  them  some  revelation  of  the 
mystery  that  shrouded  her  birth  and  her  name.  Then 
she  stood  with  dreamy  gaze  upon  the  distant  ranges. 

" Columbine! ...  So  they  named  me — those  miners  who 
found  me — a  baby — lost  in  the  woods — asleep  among  the 
columbines."  She  spoke  aloud,  as  if  the  sound  of  her 
voice  might  convince  her. 

So  much  of  the  mystery  of  her  had  been  revealed  that 
day  by  the  man  she  had  always  called  father.  Vaguely 
she  had  always  been  conscious  of  some  mystery,  some 
thing  strange  about  her  childhood,  some  relation  never 
explained. 

"No  name  but  Columbine,"  she  whispered,  sadly,  and 
now  she  understood  a  strange  longing  of  her  heart. 

Scarcely  an  hour  back,  as  she  ran  down  the  wide  porch 
of  White  Slides  ranch-house,  she  had  encountered  the  man 
who  had  taken  care  of  her  all  her  life.  He  had  looked 

2 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

upon  her  as  kindly  and  fatherly  as  of  old,  yet  with  a  dit* 
ference.  She  seemed  to  see  him  as  old  Bill  Belllounds, 
pioneer  and  rancher,  of  huge  frame  and  broad  face,  hard 
and  scarred  and  grizzled,  with  big  eyes  of  blue  fire. 

"Collie,"  the  old  man  had  said,  " I  reckon  hyar's  news. 
A  letter  from  Jack.  .  .  .  He's  comin'  home." 

Belllounds  had  waved  the  letter.  His  huge  hand 
trembled  as  he  reached  to  put  it  on  her  shoulder.  The 
hardness  of  him  seemed  strangely  softened.  Jack  was  his 
son.  Buster  Jack,  the  range  had  always  called  him,  with 
other  terms,  less  kind,  that  never  got  to  the  ears  of  his 
father.  Jack  had  been  sent  away  three  years  ago,  just 
before  Columbine's  return  from  school.  Therefore  she 
had  not  seen  him  for  over  seven  years.  But  she  remem- 
V.red  him  well — a  big,  rangy  boy,  handsome  and  wild, 
who  bad  made  her  childhood  almost  unendurable. 

"Yes — my  son — Jack — he's  comin  *  home,"  said  Bell 
lounds,  with  a  break  in  his  voice.  "An',  Collie — now  I 
must  tell  you  somethin'." 

"Yes,  dad,"  she  had  replied,  with  strong  clasp  of  the 
heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Thet's  just  it,  lass.  I  ain't  your  dad.  I've  tried  to 
be  a  dad  to  you  an'  I've  loved  you  as  my  own.  But  you're 
not  flesh  an'  blood  of  mine.  An'  now  I  must  tell  you." 

The  brief  story  followed.  Seventeen  years  ago  miners 
working  a  claim  of  Belllounds 's  in  the  mountains  above 
Middle  Park  had  found  a  child  asleep  in  the  columbines 
along  the  trail.  Near  that  point  Indians,  probably 
Arapahoes  coming  across  the  mountains  to  attack 
the  Utes,  had  captured  or  killed  the  occupants  of  a 
prairie-schooner.  There  was  no  other  clue.  The  miners 
took  the  child  to  their  camp,  fed  and  cared  for  it,  and, 
after  the  manner  of  their  kind,  named  it  Columbine. 
Then  they  brought  it  to  Belllounds. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Collie,"  said  the  old  rancher,  "it  needn't  never  have 
been  told,  an'  wouldn't  but  fer  one  reason.  I'm  gettin* 
old.  I  reckon  I'd  never  split  my  property  between  you 
an'  Jack.  So  I  mean  you  an'  him  to  marry.  You  always 
steadied  Jack.  With  a  wife  like  you'll  be — wal,  mebbe 
Jack  '11—" 

"Dad!"  burst  out  Columbine.  "Marry  Jack! . . .  Why 
I — I  don't  even  remember  him!" 

"Haw!  Haw!"  laughed  Belllounds.  "Wal,  you  dog 
gone  soon  will.  Jack's  in  Krernmlin',  an*  he'll  be  hyar 
to-night  or  to-morrow." 

"But— I— I  don't  1-love  him,"  faltered  Columbine. 

The  old  man  lost  his  mirth;  the  strong-lined  face  re 
sumed  its  hard  cast;  the  big  eyes  smoldered.  Her  ap 
pealing  objection  had  wounded  him.  She  was  reminded 
of  how  sensitive  the  old  jna-n  had  always  been  to  any 
reflection  cast  upon  his  son. 

"Wal,  thet's  onlucky;"  he  replied,  gruffly.  "Mebbe 
you'll  change.  I  reckon  no  girl  could  help  a  boy  much, 
onless  she  cared  for  him.  Anyway,  you  an'  Jack  will 
marry." 

He  had  stalked  away  and  Columbine  had  ridden  her 
mustang  far  up  the  valley  slope  where  she  could  be  alone. 
Standing  on  the  verge  of  the  bluff,  she  suddenly  became 
aware  that  the  quiet  and  solitude  of  her  lonely  resting- 
place  had  been  disrupted.  Cattle  were  bawling  below  her 
and  along  the  slope  of  old  White  Slides  and  on  the  grassy 
uplands  above.  She  had  forgotten  that  the  cattle  were 
being  driven  down  into  the  lowlands  for  the  fall  round 
up.  A  great  red-and-white-spotted  herd  was  milling  in 
the  park  just  beneath  her.  Calves  and  yearlings  were 
making  the  dust  fly  along  the  mountain  slope;  wild  old 
steers  were  crashing  in  the  sage,  holding  level,  unwilling 
to  be  driven  down ;  cows  were  running  and  lowing  for  their 

4 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

lost  ones.  Melodious  and  clear  rose  the  clarion  calls  of 
the  cowboys.  The  cattle  knew  those  calls  and  only  the 
wild  steers  kept  up-grade. 

Columbine  also  knew  each  call  and  to  which  cowboy  it 
i  "belonged.  They  sang  and  yelled  and  swore,  but  it  was 
all  music  to  her.  Here  and  there  along  the  slope,  where 
the  aspen  groves  clustered,  a  horse  would  flash  across  an 
-  open  space ;  the  dust  would  fly,  and  a  cowboy  would  peal 
out  a  lusty  yell  that  rang  along  the  slope  and  echoed  under 
the  bluff  and  lingered  long  after  the  daring  rider  had 
vanished  in  the  steep  thickets. 

"I  wonder  which  is  Wils,"  murmured  Columbine,  as 
she  watched  and  listened,  vaguely  conscious  of  a  little 
•difference,  a  strange  check  in  her  remembrance  of  this 
particular  cowboy.  She  felt  the  change,  yet  did  not 
understand.  One  after  one  she  recognized  the  riders  on 
the  slopes  below,  but  Wilson  Moore  was  not  among  them. 
He  must  be  above  her,  then,  and  she  turned  to  gaze  across 
the  grassy  bluff,  up  the  long,  yellow  slope,  to  where  the 
gleaming  aspens  half  hid  a  red  bluff  of  mountain,  tower 
ing  aloft.  Then  from  far  to  her  left,  high  up  a  scrubby 
ridge  of  the  slope,  rang  down  a  voice  that  thrilled  her: 
"Go — aloong — you — ooooo"  Red  cattle  dashed  pell-mell 
down  the  slope,  raising  the  dust,  tearing  the  brush,  rolling 
rocks,  and  letting  out  hoarse  bawls. 

"  Whoop-eel "  High-pitched  and  pealing  came  a  clearer 
yell. 

Columbine  saw  a  white  mustang  flash  out  on  top  of  the 
ridge,  silhouetted  against  the  blue,  with  mane  and  tail 
flying.  His  gait  on  that  edge  of  steep  slope  proved  his 
rider  to  be  a  reckless  cowboy  for  whom  no  heights  or 
depths  had  terrors.  She  would  have  recognized  him  from 
the  way  he  rode,  if  she  had  not  known  the  slim,  erect 
figure.  The  cowboy  saw  her  instantly.  He  pulled  the 

5 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

mustang,  about  to  plunge  down  the  slope,  and  lifted  him, 
rearing  and  wheeling.  Then  Columbine  waved  her  hand. 
The  cowboy  spurred  his  horse  along  the  crest  of  the  ridge, 
disappeared  behind  the  grove  of  aspens,  and  came  in 
sight  again  around  to  the  right,  where  on  the  grassy  bench 
he  slowed  to  a  walk  in  descent  to  the  bluff. 

The  girl  watched  him  come,  conscious  of  an  unfamiliar 
sense  of  uncertainty  in  this  meeting,  and  of  the  fact  that 
she  was  seeing  him  differently  from  any  other  time  in  the 
years  he  had  been  a  playmate,  a  friend,  almost  like  a 
brother.  He  had  ridden  for  Belllounds  for  years,  and  was 
a  cowboy  because  he  loved  cattle  well  and  horses  better, 
and  above  all  a  life  in  the  open.  Unlike  most  cowboys, 
he  had  been  to  school;  he  had  a  family  in  Denver  that 
objected  to  his  wild  range  life,  and  often  importuned  him 
to  come  home;  he  seemed  aloof  sometimes  and  not  readily 
understood. 

While  many  thoughts  whirled  through  Columbine's 
mind  she  watched  the  cowboy  ride  slowly  down  to  her, 
and  she  became  more  concerned  with  a  sudden  restraint. 
How  was  Wilson  going  to  take  the  news  of  this  forced 
change  about  to  come  in  her  life?  That  thought  leaped 
up.  It  gave  her  a  strange  pang.  But  she  and  he  were 
only  good  friends.  As  to  that,  she  reflected,  of  late  they 
had  not  been  the  friends  and  comrades  they  formerly 
were.  In  the  thrilling  uncertainty  of  this  meeting  she 
had  forgotten  his  distant  manner  and  the  absence  of  little 
attentions  she  had  missed. 

By  this  time  the  cowboy  had  reached  the  level,  and  with 
the  lazy  grace  of  his  kind  slipped  out  of  the  saddle.  He 
was  tall,  slim,  round-limbed,  with  the  small  hips  of  a  rider, 
and  square,  though  not  broad  shoulders.  He  stood  straight 
like  an  Indian.  His  eyes  were  hazel,  his  features  regular, 
his  face  bronzed.  All  men  of  the  open  had  stilL  lean, 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

strong  faces,  but  added  to  this  in  him  was  a  steadiness  of 
expression,  a  restraint  that  seemed  to  hide  sadness. 

"Howdy,  Columbine!"  he  said.  "What  are  you  doing 
up  here?  You  might  get  run  over." 

"Hello,  Wils!"  she  replied,  slowly.  "Oh,  I  guess  I 
can  keep  out  of  the  way." 

"Some  bad  steers  in  that  bunch.  If  any  of  them  run 
over  here  Pronto  will  leave  you  to  walk  home.  That 
mustang  hates  cattle.  And  he's  only  half  broke,  you 
know." 

"I  forgot  you  were  driving  to-day,"  she  replied,  and 
looked  away  from  him.  There  was  a  moment's  pause — 
long,  it  seemed  to  her. 

"What  'd  you  come  for?"  he  asked,  curiously. 

"  I  wanted  to  gather  columbines.  See."  She  held  out 
the  nodding  flowers  toward  him.  "  Take  one.  .  .  .  Do  you 
like  them?" 

"Yes.  I  like  columbine,"  he  replied,  taking  one  of 
them.  His  keen  hazel  eyes,  softened,  darkened.  "Colo 
rado's  flower." 

"Columbine!  ...  It  is  my  name." 

"Well,  could  you  have  a  better?     It  sure  suits  you." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  and  she  looked  at  him  again. 

"You're  slender — graceful.  You  sort  of  hold  your  head 
high  and  proud.  Your  skin  is  white.  Your  eyes  are  blue. 
Not  bluebell  blue,  but  columbine  blue — and  they  turn 
purple  when  you're  angry." 

"Compliments!  Wilson,  this  is  new  kind  of  talk  for 
you,"  she  said. 

"You're  different  to-day." 

"Yes,  I  am."  She  looked  across  the  valley  toward  the 
westering  sun,  and  the  slight  flush  faded  from  her  cheeks. 
"I  have  no  right  to  hold  my  head  proud.  No  one  knows 
who  I  am — where  I  came  from." 

7 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"As  if  that  made  any  difference!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Belllounds  is  not  my  dad.  I  have  no  dad.  I  was  a 
waif.  They  found  me  in  the  woods — a  baby — lost  among 
the  flowers.  Columbine  Belllounds  I've  always  been. 
But  that  is  not  my  name.  No  one  can  tell  what  my  name 
really  is." 

"I  knew  your  story  years  ago,  Columbine,"  he  replied, 
earnestly.  "Everybody  knows.  Old  Bill  ought  to  have 
told  you  long  before  this.  But  he  loves  you.  So  does 
— everybody.  You  must  not  let  this  knowledge  sadden 
you.  ...  I'm  sorry  you've  never  known  a  mother  or  a 
sister.  Why,  I  could  tell  you  of  many  orphans  who — 
whose  stories  were  different." 

"You  don't  understand.  I've  been  happy.  I've  not 
longed  for  any — any  one  except  a  mother.  It's  only — " 

"What  don't  I  understand?" 

"I've  not  told  you  all." 

"No?    Well,  go  on,"  he  said,  slowly. 

Meaning  of  the  hesitation  and  the  restraint  that  had 
obstructed  her  thought  now  flashed  over  Columbine.  It 
lay  in  what  Wilson  Moore  might  think  of  her  prospective 
marriage  to  Jack  Belllounds.  Still  she  could  not  guess 
why  that  should  make  her  feel  strangely  uncertain  of  the 
ground  she  stood  on  or  how  it  could  cause  a  constraint 
she  had  to  fight  herself  to  hide.  Moreover,  to  her  annoy 
ance,  she  found  that  she  was  evading  his  direct  request 
for  the  news  she  had  withheld. 

"Jack  Belllounds  is  coming  home  to-night  or  to-morrow/* 
she  said.  Then,  waiting  for  her  companion  to  reply,  she 
kept  an  unseeing  gaze  upon  the  scanty  pines  fringing  Old 
White  Slides.  But  no  reply  appeared  to  be  forthcoming 
from  Moore.  His  silence  compelled  her  to  turn  to  him. 
The  cowboy's  face  had  subtly  altered;  it  was  darker  with 
a  tinge  of  red  under  the  bronze;  and  his  lower  lip  was 

a 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

released  from  his  teeth,  even  as  she  looked.  He  had  hia 
eyes  intent  upon  the  lasso  he  was  coiling.  Suddenly  he 
faced  her  and  the  dark  fire  of  his  eyes  gave  her  a  shock. 

"I've  been  expecting  that  shorthorn  back  for  months." 
he  said,  bluntly. 

"You — never — liked  Jack?"  queried  Columbine,  slowly. 
That  was  not  what  she  wanted  to  say,  but  the  thought 
spoke  itself. 

"I  should  smile  I  never  did." 

"Ever  since  you  and  he  fought — long  ago — all  over — " 

His  sharp  gesture  made  the  coiled  lasso  loosen. 

"Ever  since  I  licked  him  good — don't  forget  that,'1 
interrupted  Wilson.  The  red  had  faded  from  the 
bronze. 

"Yes,  you  licked  him,"  mused  Columbine.  "I  remem 
ber  that.  And  Jack's  hated  you  ever  since." 

"There's  been  no  love  lost." 

"But,  Wils,  you  never  before  talked  this  way — spoke 
out  so — against  Jack,"  she  protested. 

"Well,  I'm  not  the  kind  to  talk  behind  a  fellow's  back. 
But  I'm  not  mealy-mouthed,  either,  and — and — " 

He  did  not  complete  the  sentence  and  his  meaning  was 
enigmatic*.  Altogether  Moore  seemed  not  like  himself. 
The  fact  disturbed  Columbine.  Always  she  had  confided 
in  him.  Here  was  a  most  complex  situation — she  burned 
to  tell  him,  yet  somehow  feared  to — she  felt  an  incom 
prehensible  satisfaction  in  his  bitter  reference  to  Jack — 
she  seemed  to  realize  that  she  valued  Wilson's  friendship 
more  than  she  had  known,  and  now  for  some  strange 
reason  it  was  slipping  from  her. 

"We — we  were  such  good  friends — pards,"  said  Colum 
bine,  hurriedly  and  irrelevantly. 

"  Who  ? "     He  stared  at  her. 

"Why,  you— and  me." 

a  o 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Oh!"  His  tone  softened,  but  there  was  still  disap 
proval  in  his  glance.  '  *  What  of  that  ? ' ' 

"  Something  has  happened  to  make  me  think  I've  missed 
you— lately— that's  all." 

"Ahuh!"  His  tone  held  finality  and  bitterness,  but  he 
would  not  commit  himself.  Columbine  sensed  a  pride  in 
him  that  seemed  the  cause  of  his  aloofness. 

"Wilson,  why  have  you  been  different  lately?"  she 
asked,  plaintively. 

"What's  the  good  to  tell  you  now? "  he  queried,  in  reply. 

That  gave  her  a  blank  sense  of  actual  loss.  She  had 
lived  in  dreams  and  he  in  realities.  Right  now  she  could 
not  dispel  her  dream — se?  and  understand  all  that  he 
seemed  to.  She  felt  like  a'c  hild,  then,  growing  old  swiftly. 
The  strange  past  longing  or  a  mother  surged  up  in  her 
like  a  strong  tide.  Some  one  to  lean  on,  some  one  who 
loved  her,  some  one  to  help  her  in  this  hour  when  fatality 
knocked  at  the  door  of  her  youth — how  she  needed  that! 

"It  might  be  bad  for  me — to  tell  me,  but  tell  me,  any 
how,"  she  said,  finally,  answering  as  some  one  older  than 
she  had  been  an  hour  ago — to  something  feminine  that 
leaped  up.  She  did  not  understand  this  impulse,  but  it 
was  in  her. 

"No!"  declared  Moore,  with  dark  red  staining  his  face. 
He  slapped  the  lasso  against  his  saddle,  and  tied  it  with 
clumsy  hands.  He  did  not  look  at  her.  His  tone  ex 
pressed  anger  and  amaze. 

"Dad  says  I  must  marry  Jack,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden 
return  to  her  natural  simplicity. 

"I  heard  him  tell  that  months  ago,"  snapped  Moore. 

"You  did!    Was  that— why?"  she  whispered. 

"It  was,"  he  answered,  ringingly. 

"But  that  was  no  reason  for  you  to  be — be — to  stay 
away  from  me,"  she  declared,  with  rising  spirit. 

10 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

He  laughed  shortly. 

"Wils,  didn't  you  like  me  any  more  after  dad  said 
that?"  she  queried. 

"Columbine,  a  girl  nineteen  years  and  about  to — to  get 
married — ought  not  be  a  fool,"  he  replied,  with  sarcasm 

"I'm  not  a  fool,"  she  rejoined,  hotly. 

"You  ask  fool  questions." 

"Well,  you  didn't  like  me  afterward  or  you'd  never  have 
mistreated  me." 

"If  you  say  I  mistreated  you — you  say  what's  untrue," 
he  replied,  just  as  hotly. 

They  had  never  been  so  near  a  quarrel  before.  Colum 
bine  experienced  a  sensation  new  to  her — a  commingling 
of  fear,  heat,  and  pang,  it  seemed,  all  in  one  throb.  Wil 
son  was  hurting  her.  A  quiver  ran  all  over  her,  along  her 
veins,  swelling  and  tingling. 

"You  mean  I  lie?"  she  flashed. 

"Yes,  I  do— if— " 

But  before  he  could  conclude  she  slapped  his  face.  It 
grew  pale  then,  while  she  began  to  tremble. 

"Oh— I  didn't  intend  that.    Forgive  me,"  she  faltered, 

He  rubbed  his  cheek.  The  hurt  had  not  been  great, 
so  far  as  the  blow  was  concerned.  But  his  eyes  were  dark 
with  pain  and  anger. 

"Oh,  don't  distress  yourself,"  he  burst  out.  "You 
slapped  me  before — once,  years  ago — for  kissing  you.  I 
— I  apologize  for  saying  you  lied.  You're  only  out  of 
your  head.  So  am  I." 

That  poured  oil  upon  the  troubled  waters.  The  cow 
boy  appeared  to  be  hesitating  between  sudden  flight  and 
the  risk  of  staying  longer. 

"Maybe  that's  it,"  replied  Columbine,  with  a  half- 
laugh.  She  was  not  far  from  tears  and  fury  with  herself- 
"Let  us  make  up — be  friends  again." 

ii 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Moore  squared  around  aggressively.  He  seemed  to 
fortify  himself  against  something  in  her.  She  felt  that. 
But  his  face  grew  harder  and  older  than  she  had  ever 
seen  it. 

"Columbine,  do  you  know  where  Jack  Belllounds  has 
been  for  these  three  years?"  he  asked,  deliberately,  en 
tirely  ignoring  her  overtures  of  friendship. 

"No.  Somebody  said  Denver.  Some  one  else  said 
Kansas  City.  I  never  asked  dad,  because  I  knew  Jack 
had  been  sent  away.  I've  supposed  he  was  working — 
making  a  man  of  himself." 

"Well,  I  hope  to  Heaven — for  your  sake — what  you 
suppose  comes  true,"  returned  Moore,  with  exceeding 
bitterness. 

" Do  you  know  where  he  has  been?"  asked  Columbine. 
Some  strange  feeling  prompted  that.  There  was  a  mys 
tery  here.  Wilson's  agitation  seemed  strange  and  deep. 

"Yes,  I  do."  The  cowboy  bit  that  out  through  closing 
teeth,  as  if  locking  them  against  an  almost  overmastering 
temptation. 

Columbine  lost  her  curiosity.  She  was  woman  enough 
to  realize  that  there  might  well  be  facts  which  would  only 
make  her  situation  harder. 

"Wilson,"  she  began,  hurriedly,  " I  owe  all  I  am  to  dad. 
He  has  cared  for  me — sent  me  to  school.  He  has  been  so 
good  to  me.  I've  loved  him  always.  It  would  be  a 
shabby  return  for  all  his  protection  and  love  if — if  I 
refused — " 

"Old  Bill  is  the  best  man  ever,"  interrupted  Moore,  as 
if  to  repudiate  any  hint  of  disloyalty  to  his  employer. 
"Everybody  in  Middle  Park  and  all  over  owes  Bill  some 
thing.  He's  sure  good.  There  never  was  anything  wrong 
with  him  except  his  crazy  blindness  about  his  son.  Buster 
Jack— the— the— " 

12 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Columbine  put  a  hand  over  Moore's  lips. 

"The  man  I  must  marry,"  she  said,  solemnly. 

"You  must — you  will?"  he  demanded. 

"Of  course.  What  else  couid  I  do?  I  never  thought 
of  refusing." 

"Columbine!"  Wilson's  cry  was  so  poignant,  his  gest 
ure  so  violent,  his  dark  eyes  so  piercing  that  Columbine 
sustained  a  shock  that  held  her  trembling  and  mute. 
"How  can  you  love  Jack  Belllounds?  You  were  twelve 
years  old  when  you  saw  him  last.  How  can  you  love 
him?" 

"I  don't,"  replied  Columbine. 

"Then  how  could  you  marry  him?" 

"I  owe  dad  obedience.  It's  his  hope  that  I  can  steady 
Jack." 

4 '  Steady  Jack! ' '  exclaimed  Moore,  passionate! y .  ' '  Why, 
,you  girl — you  white-faced  flower!  You  with  your  inno 
cence  and  sweetness  steady  that  damned  pup!  My 
Heavens!  He  was  a  gambler  and  a  drunkard.  He — " 

"Hush!"  implored  Columbine. 

"He  cheated  at  cards,"  declared  the  cowboy,  with  a 
scorn  that  placed  that  vice  as  utterly  base. 

"But  Jack  was  only  a  wild  boy,"  replied  Columbine, 
trying  with  brave  words  to  champion  the  son  of  the  man 
she  loved  as  her  father.  "  He  has  been  sent  away  to  work. 
He'll  have  outgrown  that  wildness.  He'll  come  home  a 
man." 

"Bah!"  cried  Moore,  harshly. 

Columbine  felt  a  sinking  within  her.  Where  was 
ner  strength?  She,  who  could  walk  and  ride  so  many 
miles,  to  become  sick  with  an  inward  quaking!  It 
was  childish.  She  struggled  to  hide  her  weakness  from 
him. 

"It's  not  like  you  to  be  this  way,"  she  said.  "You 

13 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

ased  to  be  generous.  Am  I  to  blame?  Did  I  choose  my 
life?" 

Moore  looked  quickly  away  from  her,  and,  standing 
with  a  hand  on  his  horse,  he  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The 
squaring  of  his  shoulders  bore  testimony  to  his  thought. 
Presently  he  swung  up  into  the  saddle.  The  mustang 
snorted  and  champed  the  bit  and  tossed  his  head,  ready 
to  bolt. 

"Forget  my  temper,"  begged  the  cowboy,  looking  down 
upon  Columbine.  "  I  take  it  all  back.  I'm  sorry.  Don't 
let  a  word  of  mine  worry  you.  I  was  only  jealous." 

"Jealous!"  exclaimed  Columbine,  wonderingly. 

"Yes.  That  makes  a  fellow  see  red  and  green.  Bad 
medicine!  You  never  felt  it." 

"What  were  you  jealous  of?"  asked  Columbine. 

The  cowboy  had  himself  in  hand  now  and  he  regarded 
her  with  a  grim  amusement. 

"Well,  Columbine,  it's  like  a  story,"  he  replied.  "I'm 
the  fellow  disowned  by  his  family — a  wanderer  of  the 
wilds — no  good — and  no  prospects.  .  .  .  Now  our  friend 
Jack,  he's  handsome  and  rich.  He  has  a  doting  old  dad. 
Cattle,  horses — ranches!  He  wins  the  girl.  See!" 

Spurring  his  mustang,  the  cowboy  rode  away.  At  the 
edge  of  the  slope  he  turned  in  the  saddle.  "I've  got  to 
drive  in  this  bunch  of  cattle.  It's  late.  You  hurry 
home."  Then  he  was  gone.  The  stones  cracked  and 
rolled  down  under  the  side  of  the  bluff. 

Columbine  stood  where  he  had  left  her:  dubious,  yet 
with  the  blood  still  hot  in  her  cheeks. 

"Jealous?  ...  He  wins  the  girl?"  she  murmured  in 
repetition  to  herself.  "What  ever  could  he  have  meant? 
He  didn't  mean— he  didn't—" 

The  simple,  logical  interpretation  of  Wilson's  words 
opened  Columbine's  mind  to  a  disturbing  possibility  of 

I A 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

which  she  had  never  dreamed.  That  he  might  love  her- 
If  he  did,  why  had  he  not  said  so?  Jealous,  maybe,  but 
he  did  not  love  her !  The  next  throb  of  thought  was  like 
a  knock  at  a  door  of  her  heart — a  door  never  yet  opened, 
inside  which  seemed  a  mystery  of  feeling,  of  hope,  despair, 
unknown  longing,  and  clamorous  voices.  The  woman 
just  born  in  her,  instinctive  and  self-preservative,  shut 
that  door  before  she  had  more  than  a  glimpse  inside.  But 
then  she  felt  her  heart  swell  with  its  nameless  burdens. 

Pronto  was  grazing  near  at  hand.  She  caught  him  and 
mounted.  It  struck  her  then  that  her  hands  were  numb 
with  cold.  The  wind  had  ceased  fluttering  the  aspens, 
but  the  yellow  leaves  were  falling,  rustling.  Out  on  the 
brow  of  the  slope  she  faced  home  and  the  west. 

A  glorious  Colorado  sunset  had  just  reached  the  wonder 
ful  height  of  its  color  and  transformation.  The  sage 
slopes  below  her  seemed  rosy  velvet;  the  golden  aspens 
on  the  farther  reaches  were  on  fire  at  the  tips;  the  foot 
hills  rolled  clear  and  mellow  and  rich  in  the  light;  the  gulf 
of  distance  on  to  the  great  black  range  was  veiled  in 
mountain  purple;  and  the  dim  peaks  beyond  the  range 
stood  up,  sunset-flushed  and  grand.  The  narrow  belt  of 
blue  sky  between  crags  and  clouds  was  like  a  river  full  of 
fleecy  sails  and  wisps  of  silver.  Above  towered  a  pall  of 
dark  cloud,  full  of  the  shades  of  approaching  night. 

"Oh,  beautiful!"  breathed  the  girl,  with  all  her  worship 
of  nature.  That  wild  world  of  sunset  grandeur  and  lone 
liness  and  beauty  was  hers.  Over  there,  under  a  peak  of 
the  black  range,  was  the  place  where  she  had  been  found, 
a  baby,  lost  in  the  forest.  She  belonged  to  that,  and  so 
it  belonged  to  her.  Strength  came  to  her  from  the  glory 
of  light  on  the  hills. 

Pronto  shot  up  his  ears  and  checked  his  trot. 

"What  is  it,  boy?"  called  Columbine.  The  trail  was 

IS 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

getting  dark.  Shadows  were  creeping  up  the  slope  as  she 
rode  down  to  meet  them.  The  mustang  had  keen  sight 
and  scent.  She  reined  him  to  a  halt. 

All  was  silent.  The  valley  had  begun  to  shade  on  the 
far  side  and  the  rose  and  gold  seemed  fading  from  the 
nearer.  Below,  on  the  level  floor  of  the  valley,  lay  the 
rambling  old  ranch-house,  with  the  cabins  nestling  around, 
and  the  corrals  leading  out  to  the  soft  hay-fields,  misty 
and  gray  in  the  twilight.  A  single  light  gleamed.  It 
was  like  a  beacon. 

The  air  was  cold  with  a  nip  of  frost.  From  far  on  the 
other  side  of  the  ridge  she  had  descended  came  the  bawls 
of  the  last  straggling  cattle  of  the  round-up.  But  surely 
Pronto  had  not  shot  up  his  ears  for  them.  As  if  in  answer 
a  wild  sound  pealed  down  the  slope,  making  the  mustang 
jump.  Columbine  had  heard  it  before. 

"Pronto,  it's  only  a  wolf,"  she  soothed  him. 

The  peal  was  loud,  rather  harsh  at  first,  then  softened 
to  a  mourn,  wild,  lonely,  haunting.  A  pack  of  coyotes 
barked  in  angry  answer,  a  sharp,  staccato,  yelping  chorus, 
the  more  piercing  notes  biting  on  the  cold  night  air. 
These  mountain  mourns  and  yelps  were  music  to  Colum 
bine.  She  rode  on  down  the  trail  in  the  gathering  dark 
ness,  less  Afraid  of  the  night  and  its  wild  denizens  than  ol 
what  awaited  her  at  White  Slides  Ranch. 


CHAPTER  H 

ARKNESS  settled  down  like  a  black  mantle  over  the 
••— '  valley.  Columbine  rather  hoped  to  find  Wilson 
waiting  to  take  care  of  her  horse,  as  used  to  be  his  habit, 
but  she  was  disappointed.  No  light  showed  from  the 
cabin  in  which  the  cowboys  lived;  he  had  not  yet  come 
in  from  the  round-up.  She  unsaddled,  and  turned  Pronto 
loose  in  the  pasture. 

The  windows  of  the  long,  low  ranch-house  were  bright 
squares  in  the  blackness,  sending  cheerful  rays  afar. 
Columbine  wondered  in  trepidation  if  Jack  Belllounds  had 
come  home.  It  required  effort  of  will  to  approach  the 
house.  Yet  since  she  must  meet  him,  the  sooner  the 
ordeal  was  over  the  better.  Nevertheless  she  tiptoed 
past  the  bright  windows,  and  went  all  the  length  of  the 
long  porch,  and  turned  around  and  went  back,  and  then 
hesitated,  fighting  a  slow  drag  of  her  spirit,  an  oppression 
upon  her  heart.  The  door  was  crude  and  heavy.  It 
opened  hard. 

Columbine  entered  a  big  room  lighted  by  a  lamp  on 
the  upper  table  and  by  blazing  logs  in  a  huge  stone  fire 
place.  This  was  the  living-room,  rather  gloomy  in  the 
corners,  and  bare,  but  comfortable,  for  all  simple  needs. 
The  logs  were  new  and  the  chinks  between  them  filled 
with  clay,  still  white,  showing  that  the  house  was  of 
recent  build. 

The  rancher,  Belllounds,  sat  in  his  easy-chair  before 
the  fire  his  big,  horny  hands  extended  to  the  warmth. 

17 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  a  gray,  bold-faced  man,  of 
over  sixty  years,  still  muscular  and  rugged. 

At  Columbine's  entrance  he  raised  his  drooping 
head,  and  so  removed  the  suggestion  of  sadness  in  his 
posture. 

"Wai,  lass,  hyar  you  are,"  was  his  greeting.  "Jake 
has  been  hollerin'  thet  chuck  was  ready.  Now  we  can 
eat." 

"Dad — did — did  your  son  come?"  asked  Columbine. 

"No.  I  got  word  jest  at  sundown.  One  of  Baker's 
cowpunchers  from  up  the  valley.  He  rode  up  from 
Kremmlin'  an'  stopped  to  say  Jack  was  celebratin'  his 
arrival  by  too  much  red  liquor.  Reckon  he  won't  be  home 
to-night.  Mebbe  to-morrow." 

Belllounds  spoke  in  an  even,  heavy  tone,  without  any 
apparent  feeling.  Always  he  was  mercilessly  frank  and 
never  spared  the  truth.  But  Columbine,  who  knew  him 
well,  felt  how  this  news  flayed  him.  Resentment  stirred 
in  her  toward  the  wayward  son,  but  she  knew  better  than 
to  voice  it. 

"  Natural  like,  I  reckon,  fer  Jack  to  feel  gay  on  gettin' 
home.  I  ain't  holdin'  thet  ag'in'  him.  These  last  three 
years  must  have  been  gallin'  to  thet  boy." 

Columbine  stretched  her  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"  It's  cold,  dad,"  she  averred.  "  I  didn't  dress  warmly, 
so  I  nearly  froze.  Autumn  is  here  and  there's  frost  in 
the  air.  Oh,  the  hills  were  all  gold  and  red — the  aspen 
leaves  were  falling.  I  love  autumn,  but  it  means  winter 
is  so  near." 

"Wai,  wal,  time  flies,"  sighed  the  old  man.  " Where'd 
you  ride?" 

"Up  the  west  slope  to  the  bluff.  It's  far.  I  don't  go 
there  often." 

"Meet  any  of  the  boys?    I  sent  the  outfit  to  drivel 

18 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

stock  down  from  the  mountain.  I've  lost  a  good  many 
head  lately.  They're  eatin'  some  weed  thet  poisons 
them.  They  swell  up  an'  die.  Wuss  this  year  than 
ever  before." 

' *  Why,  that  is  serious,  da d !  Poor  things !  That's  worse 
than  eating  loco.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  met  Wilson  Moore  driving 
down  the  slope." 

"Ahuh!    Wai,  let's  eat." 

They  took  seats  at  the  table  which  the  cook,  Jake,  was 
loading  with  steaming  victuals.  Supper  appeared  to  be 
a  rather  sumptuous  one  this  evening,  in  honor  of  the  ex 
pected  guest,  who  had  not  come.  Columbine  helped  the 
old  man  to  his  favorite  dishes,  stealing  furtive  glances  at 
his  lined  and  shadowed  face.  She  sensed  a  subtle  change 
in  him  since  the  afternoon,  but  could  not  see  any  sign  of 
it  in  his  look  or  demeanor.  His  appetite  was  as  hearty 
as  ever. 

"  So  you  met  Wils.  Is  he  still  makm'  up  to  you  ? tr  asked 
Belllounds,  presently. 

"No,  he  isn't.  I  don't  see  that  he  ever  did — that — - 
dad,"  she  replied. 

"You're  a  kid  in  mind  an*  a  woman  in  body.  Thet 
cowpuncher  has  been  lovesick  over  you  since  you  were  a 
little  girl.  It's  what  kept  him  hyar  ridin'  fer  me." 

"Dad,  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Columbine,  feeling  the 
blood  at  her  temples.  "You  always  imagined  such 
things  about  Wilson,  and  the  other  boys  as  well." 

"Ahuh!  I'm  an  old  fool  about  wimmen,  hey?  Mebbe 
I  was  years  ago.  But  I  can  see  now.  .  .  .  Didn't  Wils 
always  get  ory-eyed  when  any  of  the  other  boys  shined  up 
to  you?" 

"I  can't  remember  that  he  didy"  replied  Columbine- 
She  felt  a  desire  to  laugh,,  yet  1fce  subject  waj? 
but  amusing  to  her, 

19 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wai,  you've  always  been  innocent-like.  Thank  the 
Lord  you  never  leaned  to  tricks  of  most  pretty  lasses, 
makin'  eyes  at  all  the  men.  Anyway,  a  matter  of  three 
months  ago  I  told  Wils  to  keep  away  from  you — thet  you 
were  not  fer  any  poor  cowpuncher." 

"You  never  liked  him.  Why?  Was  it  fair,  taking  him 
as  boys  come?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  it  wasn't,"  replied  Belllounds,  and  as  he 
looked  up  his  broad  face  changed  to  ruddy  color.  "Thet 
boy's  the  best  rider  an'  roper  I've  had  in  years.  He  ain't 
the  bronco-bustin'  kind.  He  never  drank.  He  was 
honest  an'  willin'.  He  saves  his  money.  He's  good  at 
handlin'  stock.  Thet  boy  will  be  a  rich  rancher  some 
day." 

"Strange,  then,  you  never  liked  him,"  murmured  Colum 
bine.  She  felt  ashamed  of  the  good  it  did  her  to  hear 
Wilson  praised. 

"  No,  it  ain't  strange.  I  have  my  own  reasons,"  replied 
Belllounds,  gruffly,  as  he  resumed  eating. 

Columbine  believed  she  could  guess  the  cause  of  the 
old  rancher's  unreasonable  antipathy  for  this  cowboy. 
Not  improbably  it  was  because  Wilson  had  always  been 
superior  in  every  way  to  Jack  Belllounds.  The  boys  had 
been  natural  rivals  in  everything  pertaining  to  life  on  the 
range.  What  Bill  Belllounds  admired  most  in  men  was 
paramount  in  Wilson  and  lacking  in  his  own  son. 

"Will  you  put  Jack  in  charge  of  your  ranches,  now?pr 
asked  Columbine. 

"Not  much.  I  reckon  I'll  try  him  hyar  at  White 
Slides  as  foreman.  An'  if  he  runs  the  outfit,  then  I'll 
see." 

"Dad,  he'll  never  run  the  White  Slides  outfit,"  asserted 
^Columbine. 

"Wai,  it  is  a  hard  bunch,  I'll  agree     But  I  reckon  the 

20 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

boys  will  -stay,  exceptin',  mebbe,  Wils.  Anr  it  '11  be  jest 
as  well  fer  him  to  leave." 

"It's  not  good  business  to  send  away  your  best  cow 
boy.  I've  heard  you  complain  lately  of  lack  of  men." 

"I  sure  do  need  men,"  replied  Belllounds,  seriously. 
"Stock  gettin'  more  'n  we  can  handle.  I  sent  word  over 
the  range  to  Meeker,  hopin'  to  get  some  men  there.  What 
I  need  most  iest  now  is  a  fellar  who  knows  dogs  an'  who'll 
hunt  down  the  wolves  an'  lions  an'  bears  thet  're  livin' 
off  my  cattle." 

"Dad,  you  need  a  whole  outfit  to  handle  the  packs  of 
hounds  )rou've  got.  Such  an  assortment  of  them !  There 
must  be  a  hundred.  Only  yesterday  some  man  brought 
a  lot  of  mangy,  long-eared  canines.  It's  funny.  Why, 
dad,  you're  the  laughing-stock  of  the  range!' 

"Yes,  an'  the  range  '11  be  thankin'  me  when  I  rid  it  of 
all  these  varmints,"  declared  Belllounds.  "Lass,  I  swore 
I'd  buy  every  dog  fetched  to  me,  until  I  had  enough  to 
kill  off  the  coyotes  an'  lofers  an'  lions.  I'll  do  it,  too. 
But  I  need  a  hunter." 

"Why  not  put  Wilson  Moore  in  charge  of  the  hounds? 
He's  a  hunter." 

"Wai,  lass,  thet  might  be  a  good  idee,"  replied  the 
rancher,  nodding  his  grizzled  head.  "Say,  you're  sort  of 
wantin'  me  to  keep  Wils  on." 

"Yes,  dad." 

"Why?     Do  you  like  him  so  much?" 

"  I  like  him — of  course.  He  has  been  almost  a  brother 
to  me." 

"  Ahuh!  Wai,  are  you  sure  you  don't  like  him  more  'n 
you  ought — considerin*  what's  in  the  wind?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  I  don't,"  replied  Columbine,  with 
tingling  cheeks., 

"Wai   I'm  glad  of  thet    Reckon  it  Tl  be  no  great 

21 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

matter  whether  Wils  stays  or  leaves.     If  he  wants  to  111 
give  him  a  job  with  the  hounds." 

That  evening  Columbine  went  to  her  room  early.  It 
was  a  cozy  little  blanketed  nest  which  she  had  arranged 
and  furnished  herself.  The-re  was  a  little  square  window 
cut  through  the  logs  and  through  which  many  a  night 
the  snow  had  blown  in  upon  her  bed.  She  loved  her  little 
isolated  refuge.  This  night  it  was  cold,  the  first  time  this 
autumn,  and  the  lighted  lamp,  though  brightening  the 
room,  did  not  make  it  appreciably  warmer.  There  was 
a  stone  fireplace,  but  as  she  had  neglected  to  bring  in  wood 
she  could  not  start  a  fire.  So  she  undressed,  blew  out  the 
lamp,  and  went  to  bed. 

Columbine  was  soon  warm,  and  the  darkness  of  her 
little  room  seemed  good  to  her.  Sleep  she  felt  never 
would  come  that  night.  She  wanted  to  think;  she  could 
not  help  but  think;  and  she  tried  to  halt  the  whirl  of  her 
mind.  Wilson  Moore  occupied  the  foremost  place  in  her 
varying  thoughts — a  fact  quite  remarkable  and  unac 
countable.  She  tried  to  change  it.  In  vain!  Wilson 
persisted — on  his  white  mustang  flying  across  the  ridge- 
top — coming  to  her  as  never  before — with  his  anger  and 
disapproval — his  strange,  poignant  cry,  "Columbine!" 
that  haunted  her — with  his  bitter  smile  and  his  resigna 
tion  and  his  mocking  talk  of  jealousy.  He  persisted  and 
grew  with  the  eld  rancher's  frank  praise. 

"I  must  not  think  of  him,"  she  whispered.  "Why, 
I'll  be — be  married  soon. . .  .  Married  f " 

That  word  transformed  her  thought,  and  where  she  had 
thrilled  she  now  felt  cold.  She  revolved  the  fact  in  mind. 

"  It's  true,  I'll  be  married,  because  I  ought — I  must,"  she 
said,  half  aloud.  "Because  I  can't  help  myself.  I  ought 
to  want  to—for  dad's  sake.  .  .  .  But  I  don't— I  don't." 

22 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

She  longed  above  all  things  to  be  good,  loyal,  loving;, 
helpful,  to  show  her  gratitude  for  the  home  and  the  affec 
tion  that  had  been  bestowed  upon  a  nameless  waif.  Bill 
Belllounds  had  not  been  under  any  obligation  to  succor  a 
strange,  lost  child.  He  had  done  it  because  he  was  big, 
noble.  Many  splendid  deeds  had  been  laid  at  the  old 
rancher's  door.  She  was  not  of  an  ungrateful  nature. 
She  meant  to  pay.  But  the  significance  of  the  price  began 
to  dawn  upon  her. 

"It  will  change  my  whole  life,"  she  whispered,  aghast. 

But  how?  Columbine  pondered.  She  must  go  over 
the  details  of  that  change.  No  mother  had  ever  taught 
her.  The  few  women  that  had  been  in  the  Belllounds 
home  from  time  to  time  had  not  been  sympathetic  or  had 
not  stayed  long  enough  to  help  her  much.  Even  her 
school  life  in  Denver  had  left  her  still  a  child  as  regarded 
the  serious  problems  of  women. 

"If  I'm  his  wife,"  she  went  on,  "I'll  have  to  be  with 
him — I'll  have  to  give  up  this  little  room — I'll  never  be 
free — alone — happy,  any  more." 

That  was  the  first  detail  she  enumerated.  It  was  also 
the  last.  Realization  came  with  a  sickening  little  shudder. 
And  that  moment  gave  birth  to  the  nucleus  of  an  uncon 
scious  revolt. 

The  coyotes  were  howling.  Wild,  sharp,  sweet  notes! 
They  soothed  her  troubled,  aching  head,  lulled  her  toward 
sleep,  reminded  her  of  the  gold-and-purple  sunset,  and  the 
slopes  of  sage,  the  lonely  heights,  and  the  beauty  that 
would  never  change.  On  the  morrow,  she  drowsily 
thought,  she  would  persuade  Wilson  not  to  kill  all  the 
coyotes ;  to  leave  a  few,  because  she  loved  them. 

Bill  Belllounds  had  settled  in  Middle  Park  in  1860.  It 
was  wild  country,  a  home  of  the  Ute  Indians,  and  a  natural 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

paradise  for  elk,  deer,  antelope,  buffalo.  The  mountain 
ranges  harbored  bear.  These  ranges  sheltered  the  rolling 
valley  land  which  some  explorer  had  named  Middle  Park 
in  earlier  days. 

Much  of  this  inclosed  table-land  was  prairie,  where  long 
grass  and  wild  flowers  g~ew  luxuriantly.  Belllounds  was 
a  cattleman,  and  he  saw  the  possibilities  there.  To  which 
end  he  sought  the  friendship  of  Piah,  chief  of  the  Utes. 
This  noble  red  man  was  well  disposed  toward  the  white 
settlers,  and  his  tribe,  during  those  troublous  times,  kept 
peace  with  these  invaders  of  their  mountain  home. 

In  1868  Belllounds  was  instrumental  in  persuading  the 
Utes  to  relinquish  Middle  Park.  The  slopes  of  the  hills 
were  heavily  timbered;  gold  and  silver  had  been  found 
in  the  mountains.  It  was  a  country  that  attracted  pros 
pectors,  cattlemen,  lumbermen.  The  summer  season  was 
not  long  enough  to  grow  grain,  and  the  nights  too  frosty 
for  corn;  otherwise  Middle  Park  would  have  increased 
rapidly  in  population. 

In  the  years  that  succeeded  the  departure  of  the  Utes 
Bill  Belllounds  developed  several  cattle-ranches  and  ac 
quired  others.  White  Slides  Ranch  lay  some  twenty- 
odd  miles  from  Middle  Park,  being  a  winding  arm  of  the 
main  valley  land.  Its  development  was  a  matter  of  later 
years,  and  Belllounds  lived  there  because  the  country  was 
wilder.  The  rancher,  as  he  advanced  in  years,  seemed  to 
want  to  keep  the  loneliness  that  had  been  his  in  earlier 
days.  At  the  time  of  the  return  of  his  son  to  White  Slides 
Belllounds  was  rich  in  cattle  and  land,  but  he  avowed 
frankly  that  he  had  not  saved  any  money,  and  probably 
never  would.  His  hand  was  always  open  to  every  man 
and  he  never  remembered  an  obligation.  He  trusted 
every  one.  A  proud  boast  of  his  was  that  neither  white 
man  nor  red  man  had  ever  betrayed  his  trust.  His  cow- 

24. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

boys  took  advantage  of  him,  his  neighbors  imposed  upon 
him,  but  none  were  there  who  did  not  make  good  their 
debts  of  service  or  stock.  Belllounds  was  one  of  the  great 
pioneers  of  the  frontier  days  to  whom  the  West  owed  its 
settlement;  and  he  was  finer  than  most,  because  he  proved 
that  the  Indians,  if  not  robbed  or  driven,  would  respond 
to  friendliness. 

Belllounds  was  not  seen  at  his  customary  tasks  on  the 
day  he  expected  his  son.  He  walked  in  the  fields  and 
around  the  corrals;  he  often  paced  up  and  down  the 
porch,  scanning  the  horizon  below,  where  the.  road  from 
Kremmling  showed  white  down  the  valley;  and  part  of 
the  time  he  stayed  indoors. 

It  so  happened  that  early  in  the  afternoon  he  came  out 
m  time  to  see  a  buckboard,  drawn  by  dust-and-lather- 
stained  horses,  pull  into  the  yard.  And  then  he  saw  his 
son.  Some  of  the  cowboys  came  running.  There  were 
greetings  to  the  driver,  who  appeared  well  known  to 
them. 

Jack  Belllounds  did  not  look  at  them.  He  threw  a 
bag  out  of  the  buckboard  and  then  clambered  down 
slowly,  to  go  toward  the  porch. 

"Wai,  Jack — my  son — I'm  sure  glad  you're  back  home," 
said  the  old  rancher,  striding  forward.  His  voice  was 
deep  and  full,  singularly  rich.  But  that  was  the  only 
sign  of  feeling  he  showed. 

"Howdy — dad!"  replied  the  son,  not  heartily,  as  he 
put  out  his  hand  to  his  father's. 

Jack  Belllounds's  form  was  tall,  with  a  promise  of  his 
father's  bulk.  But  he  did  not  walk  erect;  he  slouched 
a  little.  His  face  was  pale,  showing  he  had  not  of  late 
been  used  to  sun  and  wind.  Any  stranger  would  have 
seen  the  resemblance  of  boy  to  man'  would  have  granted 
3  25 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

the  handsome  boldness,  but  denied  the  strength.  The 
lower  part  of  Jack  Belllounds's  face  was  weak. 

The  constraint  of  this  meeting  was  manifest  mostly  in 
the  manner  of  the  son.  He  looked  ashamed,  almost 
sullen.  But  if  he  had  been  under  the  influence  of  liquor 
at  Kremmling,  as  reported  the  day  before,  he  had  entirely 
recovered. 

"Come  on  in,"  said  the  rancher. 

When  they  got  into  the  big  living-room,  and  Belllounds 
had  closed  the  doors,  the  son  threw  down  his  baggage 
and  faced  his  father  aggressively. 

"Do  they  all  know  where  I've  been?"  he  asked, 
bitterly.  Broken  pride  and  shame  flamed  in  his  face. 

"Nobody  knows.  The  secret's  been  kept."  replied 
Belllounds. 

Amaze  and  relief  transformed  the  young  man.  "Aw, 
now,  I'm — glad — "  he  exclaimed,  and  he  sat  down,  half 
covering  his  face  with  shaking  hands. 

"Jack,  well  start  over,"  said  Belllounds,  earnestly,  and 
his  big  eyes  shone  with  a  warm  and  beautiful  light. 
"Right  hyar.  We'll  never  speak  of  where  you've  been 
these  three  years.  Never  again!" 

Jack  gazed  up,  then,  with  all  the  sullenness  and  shadow 
gone. 

"Father,  you  were  wrong  about — doing  me  good.  It's 
done  me  harm.  But  now,  if  nobody  knows — why,  I'll 
try  to  forget  it." 

"Mebbe  I  blundered,"  replied  Belllounds,  pathetically. 
"Yet,  God  knows  I  meant  well.  You  sure  were —  But 
thet's  enough  palaver. . . .  You'll  go  to  work  as  foreman  of 
White  Slides.  An'  if  you  make  a  success  of  it  I'll  be  only 
too  glad  to  have  you  boss  the  ranch.  I'm  gettin'  along 
in  years,  son.  An'  the  last  year  has  made  me  poorer. 
Hyar's  a  fine  range,  but  I've  less  stock  this  year  than  last. 

26 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

There's  been  some  rustlin'  of  cattie,  an  a  big  loss  from 
wolves  an'  lions  an'  poison-weed.  .  .  .  What  d'you  say, 
son?" 

"I'll  run  White  Slides,"  replied  Jack,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand.  "  I  hadn't  hoped  for  such  a  chance.  But  it's  due 
me.  Who's  in  the  outfit  I  know? " 

"Reckon  no  one,  except  Wils  Moore." 

"Is  that  cowboy  here  yet?     I  don't  want  him." 

"Wai,  I'll  put  him  to  chasin'  varmints  with  the  hounds. 
An*  say,  son,  this  outfit  is  bad.  You  savvy — it's  bad. 
You  can't  run  that  bunch.  The  only  way  you  can  handle 
them  is  to  get  up  early  an'  come  back  late.  Sayin'  little, 
but  sawin'  wood.  Hard  work." 

Jack  Belllounds  did  not  evince  any  sign  of  assimilating 
the  seriousness  of  his  father's  words. 

'Til  show  them,"  he  said.  "They'll  find  out  who's 
boss.  Oh,  I'm  aching  to  get  into  boots  and  ride  and  tear 
around." 

Belllounds  stroked  his  grizzled  beard  and  regarded  his 
son  with  mingled  pride  and  doubt.  Not  at  this  moment, 
most  assuredly,  could  he  get  away  from  the  wonderful 
fact  that  his  only  son  was  home. 

"Thet's  all  right,  son.  But  you've  been  off  the  range 
fer  three  years.  You'll  need  advice.  Now  listen.  Be 
gentle  with  hosses.  You  used  to  be  mean  with  a  hoss. 
Some  cowboys  jam  their  hosses  around  an'  make  'em  pitcn 
an'  bite.  But  it  ain't  the  best  way.  A  hoss  has  got  sense. 
I've  some  fine  stock,  an*  don't  want  it  spoiled.  An'  be 
easy  an'  quiet  with  the  boys.  It's  hard  to  get  help  these 
days.  I'm  short  on  hands  now.  .  .  .  You'd  do  best,  son, 
to  stick  to  your  dad's  ways  with  hosses  an'  men." 

"Dad,  I've  seen  you  kick  horses  an'  shoot  at  men" 
replied  Jack. 

"Right,  you  have.  But  them  was  particular  bad 

27 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

cases.  I'm  not  advisin'  thet  way.  .  .  .  Son,  it's  dose  to 
my  heart — this  hope  I  have  thet  you'll — " 

The  full  voice  quavered  and  broke.  It  would  indeed 
have  been  a  hardened  youth  who  could  not  have  felt 
something  of  the  deep  and  unutterable  affection  in  the  old 
man.  Jack  Belllounds  put  an  arm  around  his  father's 
shoulder. 

"Dad,  I'll  make  you  proud  of  me  yet.  Give  me  a 
chance.  And  don't  be  sore  if  I  can't  do  wonders  right  at 
first." 

"Son,  you  shall  have  every  chance.  An*  thet  reminds 
me.  Do  you  remember  Columbine?" 

"I  should  say  so,"  replied  Jack,  eagerly.  "They  spoke 
of  her  in  Kremmling.  Where  is  she?" 

"I  reckon  somewheres  about.  Jack,  you  an*  Colum 
bine  are  to  marry." 

"Marry!     Columbine  and  me?"  he  ejaculated. 

"Yes.  You're  my  son  an'  she's  my  adopted  daughter. 
I  won't  split  my  property.  An'  it's  right  she  had  a  share. 
A  fine,  strong,  quiet,  pretty  lass,  Jack,  an'  she'll  make  a 
good  wife.  I've  set  my  heart  on  the  idee." 

"But  Columbine  always  hated  me." 

"Wai,  she  was  a  kid  then  an'  you  teased  her.  Now 
she's  a  woman,  an'  willin'  to  please  me.  Jack,  you'll  not 
buck  ag'in'  this  deal?" 

"That  depends,"  replied  Jack.  "I'd  marry  'most  any 
girl  you  wanted  me  to.  But  if  Columbine  were  to  flout 
me  as  she  used  to — why,  I'd  buck  sure  enough.  .  .  .  Dad, 
are  you  sure  she  knows  nothing,  suspects  nothing  of  where 
you — you  sent  me?" 

"Son,  I  swear  she  doesn't." 

"  Do  you  mean  you'd  want  us  to  marry  soon?'* 

"Wai,  yes,  as  soon  as  Collie  would  think  reasonable. 
Jack,  she's  shy  an'  strange,  an'  deep,  too.  If  you  ever 

28 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

win  her  heart  you'll  be  richer  than  if  you  owned  all  the 
gold  in  the  Rockies.  I'd  say  go  slow.  But  contrariwise, 
it  'd  mebbe  be  surer  to  steady  you,  keep  you  home,  if  you 
married  right  off." 

"Married  right  off!"  echoed  Jack,  with  a  laugh.  "It's 
like  a  story.  But  wait  till  I  see  her." 

At  that  very  moment  Columbine  was  sitting  on  the 
topmost  log  of  a  high  corral,  deeply  interested  in  the 
scene  before  her. 

Two  cowboys  were  in  the  corral  with  a  saddled  mus 
tang.  One  of  them  carried  a  canvas  sack  containing  tools 
and  horseshoes.  As  he  dropped  it  with  a  metallic  clink 
the  mustang  snorted  and  jumped  and  rolled  the  whites 
of  his  eyes.  He  knew  what  that  clink  meant. 

"Miss  Collie,  air  you-all  goin'  to  sit  up  thar?"  inquired 
the  taller  cowboy,  a  lean,  supple,  and  powerful  fellow, 
with  a  rough,  red-blue  face,  hard  as  a  rock,  and  steady, 
bright  eyes. 

"I  sure  am,  Jim,"  she  replied,  imperturbably. 

"But  we've  gotta  hawg-tie  him,"  protested  the  cowboy. 

"Yes,  I  know.  And  you're  going  to  be  gentle  about 
it." 

Jim  scratched  his  sandy  head  and  looked  at  his  com 
rade,  a  little  gnarled  fellow,  like  the  bleached  root  of  a 
tree.  He  seemed  all  legs. 

"You  hear,  you  Wyomin*  galoot,"  he  said  to  Jim. 
A'Them  shoes  goes  on  Whang  right  gentle." 

Jim  grinned,  and  turned  to  speak  to  his  mustang. 
"Whang,  the  law's  laid  down  an'  we  wanta  see  how  much 
hoss  sense  you  hev." 

The  shaggy  mustang  did  not  appear  to  be  favorably 
impressed  by  this  speech.  It  was  a  mighty  distrustful 
look  he  bent  upon  the  speaker. 

29 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Jim,  seein*  as  how  this  here  job's  aboot  the  last  Miss 
Collie  will  ever  boss  us  on,  we  gotta  do  it  without  Whang 
turnin'  a  hair,"  drawled  the  other  cowboy. 

"  Lem,  why  is  this  the  last  job  I'll  ever  boss  you  boys? " 
demanded  Columbine,  quickly. 

Jim  gazed  quizzically  at  her,  and  Lem  assumed  that 
blank,  innocent  face  Columbine  always  associated  with 
cowboy  deviltry. 

"Wai,  Miss  Collie,  we  reckon  the  new  boss  of  White 
Slides  rode  in  to-day." 

"You  mean  Jack  Belllounds  came  home,"  said  Colum 
bine.  "Well,  I'll  boss  you  boys  the  same  as  always." 

"Thet  'd  be  mighty  fine  for  us,  but  I'm  feared  it  ain't 
writ  in  the  fatal  history  of  White  Slides,"  replied  Jim. 

"  Buster  Jack  will  run  over  the  ole  man  an'  marry  you," 
added  Lem. 

"Oh,  so  that's  your  idea,"  rejoined  Columbine,  lightly. 
"Well,  if  such  a  thing  did  come  to  pass  I'd  be  your  boss 
more  than  ever." 

"I  reckon  no,  Miss  Collie,  for  we'll  not  be  ridin'  fer 
White  Sides,"  said  Jim,  simply. 

Columbine  had  sensed  this  very  significance  long  before 
when  the  possibility  of  Buster  Jack's  return  had  been 
rumored.  She  knew  cowboys.  As  well  try  to  change 
the  rocks  of  the  hills! 

"  Boys,  the  day  you  leave  White  Slides  will  be  a  sad  one 
for  me,"  sighed  Columbine. 

"Miss  Collie,  we  'ain't  gone  yet,"  put  in  Lem,  with 
awkward  softness.  "Jim  has  long  hankered  fer  Wyomin* 
an'  he  jest  talks  thet  way." 

Then  the  cowboys  turned  to  the  business  in  hand.  Jim 
removed  the  saddle,  but  left  the  bridle  on.  This  move, 
of  course,  deceived  Whang.  He  had  been  broken  to  stand 
«vhile  his  bridle  hung,  and,  like  a  horse  that  would  have 

30 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

been  good  if  given  a  chance,  he  obeyed  as  best  he  could, 
shaking  in  every  limb.  Jim,  apparently  to  hobble  Whang, 
roped  his  forelegs  together,  low  down,  but  suddenly  slipped 
the  rope  over  the  knees.  Then  Whang  knew  he  had  been 
deceived.  He  snorted  fire,  let  out  a  scream,  and,  rearing  on 
his  hind  legs,  he  pawed  the  air  savagely.  Jim  hauled  on 
the  rope  while  Whang  screamed  and  fought  with  his  fore 
feet  high  in  the  air.  Then  Jim,  with  a  powerful  jerk, 
pulled  Whang  down  and  threw  him,  while  Lem,  seizing 
the  bridle,  hauled  him  over  on  his  side  and  sat  upon  his 
head.  Whereupon  Jim  slipped  the  loop  off  one  front  hoof 
and  pulled  the  other  leg  back  across  one  of  the  hind  ones, 
where  both  were  secured  by  a  quick  hitch.  Then  the 
lasso  was  wound  and  looped  around  front  and  back  hoofs 
together.  When  this  had  been  done  the  mustang  was 
rolled  over  on  his  other  side,  his  free  front  hoof  lassoed 
and  pulled  back  to  the  hind  one,  where  both  were  secured, 
as  had  been  the  others.  This  rendered  the  mustang 
powerless,  and  the  shoeing  proceeded. 

Columbine  hated  to  sit  by  and  watch  it,  but  she  always 
stuck  to  her  post,  when  opportunity  afforded,  because 
she  knew  the  cowboys  would  not  be  brutal  while  she  was 
there. 

"Wai,  he'll  step  high  to-morrer,"  said  Lem,  as  he  got 
up  from  his  seat  on  the  head  of  Whang. 

"  Ahuh!  An',  like  a  mule,  he'll  be  my  friend  fer  twenty 
years  jest  to  get  a  chance  to  kick  me,"  replied  Jim. 

For  Columbine,  the  most  interesting  moment  of  this 
incident  was  when  the  mustang  raised  his  head  to  look 
at  his  legs,  in  order  to  see  what  had  been  done  to  them. 
There  was  something  almost  human  in  that  look.  It  ex 
pressed  intelligence  and  fear  and  fury. 

The  cowboys  released  his  legs  and  let  him  get  up. 
Whang  stamped  his  iron-shod  hoofs. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"It  was  a  mean  trick,  Whang,"  said  Columbine.  "If 
I  owned  you  that  'd  never  be  done  to  you." 

"I  reckon  you  can  have  him  fer  the  askin',"  said  Jim, 
as  he  threw  on  the  saddle.  "Nobody  but  me  can  ride 
him.  Do  you  want  to  try?" 

"Not  in  these  clothes,"  replied  Columbine,  laughing. 

"Wai,  Miss  Collie,  you're  shore  dressed  up  fine  to-day, 
fer  some  reason  or  othei.  '  said  Lem,  shaking  his  head, 
while  he  gathered  up  the  tools  from  the  ground. 

"  Ahuh !  An'  here  comes  the  reason,"  exclaimed  Jim,  in 
low,  hoarse  whisper. 

Columbine  heard  the  whisper  and  at  the  same  instant 
a  sharp  footfall  on  the  gravel  road.  She  quickly  turned, 
almost  losing  her  balance.  And  she  recognized  Jack  Bell- 
lounds.  The  boy  Buster  Jack  she  remembered  so  well 
was  approaching,  now  a  young  man,  taller,  heavier,  older, 
with  paler  face  and  bolder  look.  Columbine  had  feared 
this  meeting,  had  prepared  herself  for  it.  But  all  she  felt 
when  it  came  was  annoyance  at  the  fact  that  he  had 
caught  her  sitting  on  top  of  the  corral  fence,  with  little 
regard  for  dignity.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  jump  down. 
She  merely  sat  straight,  smoothed  down  her  skirt,  and 
waited. 

Jim  led  the  mustang  out  of  the  corral  and  Lem  followed. 
It  looked  as  if  they  wanted  to  avoid  the  young  man,  but 
he  prevented  that. 

"Howdy,  boys!  I'm  Jack  Belllounds,"  he  said,  rather 
loftily.  But  his  manner  was  nonchalant.  He  did  not 
offer  to  shake  hands. 

Jim  mumbled  something,  and  Lem  said,  "  Hod  do." 

"That's  an  ornery  -  looking  bronc,"  went  on  Bell 
lounds,  and  he  reached  with  careless  hand  for  the 
mustang.  Whang  jerked  so  hard  that  he  pulled  Jim 
half  over- 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wai,  he  ain't  a  bronc,  but  I  reckon  he's  all  the  rest." 
drawled  Jim. 

Both  cowboys  seemed  slow,  careless.  They  were  neither 
indifferent  nor  responsive.  Columbine  saw  their  keen, 
steady  glances  go  over  Belllounds.  Then  she  took  a 
second  and  less  hasty  look  at  him.  He  wore  high- 
heeled,  fancy  -  topped  boots,  tight  -  fitting  trousers  of 
dark  material,  a  heavy  belt  with  silver  buckle,  and  a 
white,  soft  shirt,  with  wide  collar,  open  at  the  neck. 
He  was  bareheaded. 

"I'm  going  to  run  White  Slides,"  he  said  to  the  cow 
boys.  ' '  What  're  your  names  ? ' ' 

Columbine  wanted  to  giggle,  which  impulse  she  smoth 
ered.  The  idea  of  any  one  asking  Jim  his  name !  She  had 
never  been  able  to  find  out. 

"My  handle  is  Lemuel  Archibawld  Billings,"  replied 
Lem,  blandly.  The  middle  name  was  an  addition  no  one 
had  ever  heard. 

Belllounds  then  directed  his  glance  and  steps  toward  the 
girl.  The  cowboys  dropped  their  heads  and  shuffled  on 
their  way. 

"There's  only  one  girl  on  the  ranch,"  said  Belllounds, 
"so  you  must  be  Columbine." 

"Yes.  And  you're  Jack,"  she  replied,  and  slipped  off 
the  fence.  "I'm  glad  to  welcome  you  home." 

She  offered  her  hand,  and  he  held  it  until  she  extricated 
it.  There  was  genuine  surprise  and  pleasure  in  his 
expression. 

"Well,  I'd  never  have  known  you,"  he  said,  surveying 
her  from  head  to  foot.  "  It's  funny.  I  had  the  clearest 
picture  of  you  ia  mind.  But  you're  not  at  all  like  I  imag 
ined.  The  Columbine  I  remember  was  thin,  white-faced, 
Mid  all  eyes." 

"It's  been  a  long  time.  Seven  years,"  she  replied. 

33 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"But  I  knew  you.    You're  older,  taller,  bigger,  but  the 
same  Buster  Jack." 

"i  hope  not,"  he  said,  frankly  condemning  that  former 
self.  "  Dad  needs  me.  He  wants  me  to  take  charge  here 
— to  be  a  man.  I'm  back  now.  It's  good  to  be  home. 
I  never  was  worth  much.  Lord !  I  hope  I  don't  disappoint 
him  again." 

"I  hope  so,  too,"  she  murmured.  To  hear  him  talk 
frankly,  seriously,  like  this  counteracted  the  unfavorable 
impression  she  had  received.  He  seemed  earnest.  He 
looked  down  at  the  ground,  where  he  was  pushing  little 
pebbles  with  the  toe  of  his  boot.  She  had  a  good  oppor 
tunity  to  study  his  face,  and  availed  herself  of  it.  He  did 
look  like  his  father,  with  his  big,  handsome  head,  and  his 
blue  eyes,  bolder  perhaps  from  their  prominence  than  from 
any  direct  gaze  or  fire.  His  face  was  pale,  and  shadowed 
by  worry  or  discontent.  It  seemed  as  though  a  repressed 
character  showed  there.  His  mouth  and  chin  were  un 
disciplined.  Columbine  could  not  imagine  that  she  de 
spised  anything  she  saw  in  the  features  of  this  young  man. 
Yet  there  was  something  about  him  that  held  her  aloof. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  do  her  part  unselfishly.  She 
would  find  the  best  in  him,  like  him  for  it,  be  strong  to 
endure  and  to  help.  Yet  she  had  no  power  to  control  her 
vague  and  strange  perceptions.  Why  was  it  that  she 
could  not  feel  in  him  what  she  liked  in  Jim  Montana  or 
Lem  or  Wilson  Moore? 

4 'This  was  my  second  long  stay  away  from  home,"  said 
Belllounds.  "The  first  was  when  I  went  to  school  in 
Kansas  City.  I  liked  that.  I  was  sorry  when  they 
turned  me  out — sent  me  home. . . .  But  the  last  three  years 
were  hell." 

His  face  worked,  and  a  shade  of  dark  blood  rippled 
over  it. 

34 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Did  you  work?"  queried  Columbine. 

"Work!  It  was  worse  than  work.  .  .  .  Sure  I  worked," 
he  replied. 

Columbine's  sharp  glance  sought  his  hands.  They 
looked  as  soft  and  unscarred  as  her  own.  What  kind  of 
work  had  he  done,  if  he  told  the  truth? 

"Well,  if  you  work  hard  for  dad,  learn  to  handle  the 
cowboys,  and  never  take  up  those  old  bad  habits — " 

"You  mean  drink  and  cards?  I  swear  I'd  forgotten 
them  for  three  years — until  yesterday.  I  reckon  I've  the 
better  of  them." 

"Then  you'll  make  dad  and  me  happy.  You'll  be 
happy,  too." 

Columbine  thrilled  at  the  touch  of  fineness  coming  out 
in  him.  There  was  good  in  him,  whatever  the  mad,  wild 
pranks  of  his  boyhood. 

"  Dad  wants  us  to  marry,"  he  said,  suddenly,  with  shy 
ness  and  a  strange,  amused  smile.  "Isn't  that  funny? 
You  and  me — who  used  to  fight  like  cat  and  dog!  Do 
you  remember  the  time  I  pushed  you  into  the  old  mud- 
hole?  And  you  lay  in  wait  for  me,  behind  the  house,  to 
hit  me  with  a  rotten  cabbage?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  replied  Columbine,  dreamily.  "It 
seems  so  long  ago." 

"And  the  time  you  ate  my  pie,  and  how  I  got  even  by 
tearing  off  your  little  dress,  so  you  had  to  run  home  almost 
without  a  stitch  on?" 

"Guess  I've  forgotten  that,"  replied  Columbine,  with 
a  blush.  "  I  must  have  been  very  little  then." 

"  You  were  a  little  devil. . . .  Do  you  remember  the  fight 
I  had  with  Moore — about  you?" 

She  did  not  answer,  for  she  disliked  the  fleeting 
expression  that  crossed  his  face.  He  remembered  too 
well. 

35 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"1*11  settle  that  score  with  Moore,"  he  went  on.  "Be 
sides,  I  won't  have  him  on  the  ranch." 

"  Dad  needs  good  hands,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
gray  sage  slopes.  Mention  of  Wilson  Moore  augmented 
the  aloofness  in  her.  An  annoyance  pricked  along  her 
veins. 

"Before  we  get  any  farther  I'd  like  to  know  something. 
Has  Moore  ever  made  love  to  you?" 

Columbine  felt  that  prickling  augment  to  a  hot,  sharp 
wave  of  blood.  Why  was  she  at  the  mercy  of  strange, 
quick,  unfamiliar  sensations?  Why  did  she  hesitate  over 
that  natural  query  from  Jack  Belllounds? 

"No.     He  never  has,"  she  replied,  presently. 

"  That's  damn  queer.  You  used  to  like  him  better  than 
anybody  else.  You  sure  hated  me.  .  .  .  Columbine,  have 
you  outgrown  that?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  answered.  "But  I  hardly  hated 
you." 

"  Dad  said  you  were  willing  to  marry  me.     Is  that  so  ? " 

Columbine  dropped  her  head.  His  question,  kindly 
put,  did  not  affront  her,  for  it  had  been  expected.  But 
his  actual  presence,  the  meaning  of  his  words,  stirred  in 
her  an  unutterable  spirit  of  protest.  She  had  already  in 
her  will  consented  to  the  demand  of  the  old  man;  she  was 
learning  now,  however,  that  she  could  not  force  her  flesh 
to  consent  to  a  surrender  it  did  not  desire. 

"Yes,  I'm  willing,"  she  replied,  bravely. 

"Soon?"  he  flashed,  with  an  eager  difference  in  his 
voice. 

"If  I  had  my  way  it  'd  not  be — too  soon,"  she  faltered. 
Her  downcast  eyes  had  seen  the  stride  he  had  made  closer 
to  her,  and  she  wanted  to  run. 

"Why?  Dad  thinks  it  'd  be  good  for  me,"  went  on 
Belllounds,  now,  with  strong,  self-centered  thought. 

36 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"It  'd  give  me  responsibility.  I  reckon  I  need  it.  Why 
not  soon?" 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  wait  awhile?"  she  asked. 
"We  do  not  know  each  other — let  alone  care — " 

"Columbine,  I've  fallen  in  love  with  you."  he  declared, 
hotly. 

"Oh,  how  could  you!"  cried  Columbine,  incredulously. 

"Why,  I  always  was  moony  over  you — when  we  were 
kids,"  he  said.  "And  now  to  meet  you  grown  up  like 
this — so  pretty  and  sweet — such  a — a  healthy,  blooming 
girl.  .  .  .  And  dad's  word  that  you'd  be  my  wife  soon — 
mine — why,  I  just  went  off  my  head  at  sight  of  you." 

Columbine  looked  up  at  him  and  was  reminded  of  how, 
as  a  boy,  he  had  always  taken  a  quick,  passionate  longing 
for  things  he  must  and  would  have.  And  his  father  had 
not  denied  him.  It  might  really  be  that  Jack  had  sud 
denly  fallen  in  love  with  her. 

"Would  you  want  to  take  me  without  my — my  love?" 
she  asked,  very  low.  "I  don't  love  you  now.  I  might 
some  time,  if  you  were  good — if  you  made  dad  happy — if 
you  conquered — " 

"  Take  you !  I'd  take  you  if  you — if  you  hated  me,"  he 
replied,  now  in  the  grip  of  passion. 

"I'll  tell  dad  how  I  feel,"  she  said,  faintly,  "and— and 
marry  you  when  he  says." 

He  kissed  her,  would  have  embraced  her  had  she  not 
put  him  back. 

"  Don't !    Some — some  one  will  see." 

"Columbine,  we're  engaged,"  he  asserted,  with  a  laugh 
of  possession.  "Say,  you  needn't  look  so  white  and 
scared.  I  won't  eat  you.  But  I'd  like  to.  ...  Oh,  you're 
a  sweet  girl!  Here  I  was  hating  to  come  home.  And 
look  at  my  luck!" 

Then  with  a  sudden  change,  that  seemed  significant  of 

37 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

his  character,  he  lost  his  ardor,  dropped  the  half-bold, 
half-masterful  air,  and  showed  the  softer  side. 

"Collie,  I  never  was  any  good,"  he  said.  "But  I  want 
to  be  better.  I'll  prove  it.  I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of 
everything.  I  won't  marry  you  with  any  secret  between 
us.  You  might  find  out  afterward  and  hate  me.  .  .  .  Do 
you  have  any  idea  where  I've  been  these  last  three  years? " 

"No,"  answered  Columbine. 

"I'll  tell  you  right  now.  But  you  must  promise  never 
to  mention  it  to  any  one — or  throw  it  up  to  me — ever." 

He  spoke  hoarsely,  and  had  grown  quite  white.  Sud 
denly  Columbine  thought  of  Wilson  Moore!  He  had 
known  where  Jack  had  spent  those  years.  He  had  re 
sisted  a  strong  temptation  to  tell  her.  That  was  as  noble 
in  him  as  the  implication  of  Jack's  whereabouts  had  been 
base. 

"Jack,  that  is  big  of  you,"  she  replied,  hurriedly.  "1 
respect  you — like  you  for  it.  But  you  needn't  tell  me. 
I'd  rather  you  didn't.  I'll  take  the  will  for  the  deed." 

Belllounds  evidently  experienced  a  poignant  shock  of 
amaze,  of  relief,  of  wonder,  of  gratitude.  In  an  instant 
he  seemed  transformed. 

"Collie,  if  I  hadn't  loved  you  before  I'd  love  you  now. 
That  was  going  to  be  the  hardest  job  I  ever  had — to  tell 
you  my — my  story.  I  meant  it.  And  now  I'll  not  have 
to  feel  your  shame  for  me  and  I'll  not  feel  I'm  a  cheat  or 
a  liar.  .  .  .  But  I  will  tell  you  this — if  you  love  me  you'll 
make  a  man  of  me!" 


CHAPTER  HI 

HTHE  rancher  thought  it  best  to  wait  till  after  the  round- 
A  up  before  he  turned  over  the  foremanship  to  his  son. 
This  was  wise,  but  Jack  did  not  see  it  that  way.  He 
showed  that  his  old,  intolerant  spirit  had,  if  anything, 
grown  during  his  absence.  Belllounds  patiently  argued 
with  him,  explaining  what  certainly  should  have  been 
clear  to  a  young  man  brought  up  in  Colorado.  The  fall 
round-up  was  the  most  important  time  of  the  year,  and 
during  the  strenuous  drive  the  appointed  foreman  should 
have  absolute  control.  Jack  gave  in  finally  with  a  bad 
grace. 

It  was  unfortunate  that  he  went  directly  from  his 
father's  presence  out  to  the  corrals.  Some  of  the  cow 
boys  who  had  ridden  all  the  day  before  and  stood  guard 
all  night  had  just  come  in.  They  were  begrimed  with 
dust,  weary,  and  sleepy-eyed. 

"This  hyar  outfit  won't  see  my  tracks  no  more,"  said 
one,  disgustedly.  "I  never  kicked  on  doin*  two  men's 
work.  But  when  it  comes  to  rustlin'  day  and  night,  all 
the  time,  I'm  a-goin'  to  pass." 

"Turn  in,  boys,  and  sleep  till  we  get  back  with  the 
chuck- wagon,"  said  Wilson  Moore.  "We'll  clean  up  that 
bunch  to-day." 

"Ain't  you  tired,  Wils?"  queried  Bludsoe,  a  squat,  bow- 
legged  cowpuncher  who  appeared  to  be  crippled  or  very 
lame. 

'  '  Me  ?  Naw ! "  grunted  Moore,  derisively.  "  Blud,  you 

39 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

sure  ask  fool  questions.  .  .  .  Why,  you mahogany- 
colored,  stump-legged,  biped  of  a  cowpuncher,  I've  had 
three  hours'  sleep  in  four  nights!" 

''What's  a  biped?"  asked  Bludsoe,  dubiously 

Nobody  enlightened  him. 

"Wils,  you-all  air  the  only  eddicated  cowman  I  ever 
loved,  but  I'm  a  son-of-a-gun  if  we  ain't  agoin'  to  come  to 
blows  some  day,"  declared  Bludsoe. 

"He  shore  can  sling  English,"  drawled  Lem  Billings. 
"I  reckon  he  swallowed  a  dictionary  onct." 

"Wai,  he  can  sling  a  rope,  too,  an'  thet  evens  up,"  added 
Jim  Montana. 

Just  at  this  moment  Jack  Belllounds  appeared  upon 
the  scene.  The  cowboys  took  no  notice  of  him.  Jim  was 
bandaging  a  leg  of  his  horse ;  Bludsoe  was  wearily  gather 
ing  up  his  saddle  and  trappings ;  Lem  was  giving  his  tired 
mustang  a  parting  slap  that  meant  much.  Moore  evi 
dently  awaited  a  fresh  mount.  A  Mexican  lad  had  come 
in  out  of  the  pasture  leading  several  horses,  one  of  which 
was  the  mottled  white  mustang  that  Moore  rode  most  of 
the  time. 

Belllounds  lounged  forward  with  interest  as  Moore 
whistled,  and  the  mustang  showed  his  pleasure.  Mani 
festly  he  did  not  like  the  Mexican  boy  and  he  did  like 
Mocre. 

"Spottie,  it's  drag  yearlings  around  for  you  to-day," 
said  the  cowboy,  as  he  caught  the  mustang.     Spottier 
tossed  his  head  and  stepped  high  until  the  bridle  was  on.  * 
When  the  saddle  was  thrown  and  strapped  in  place  the 
mustang  showed  to  advantage.     He  was  beautiful,  but 
not  too  graceful  or  sleek  or  fine-pointed  or  prancing  to 
prejudice  any  cowboy  against  his  qualities  for  work. 

Jack  Belllounds  admiringly  walked  all  around  the  mus 
tang,  a  little  too  close  to  please  Spottie. 

40 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"  Moore,  he's  a  fair-to-middling  horse,"  said  Belllounds, 
with  the  air  of  judge  of  horseflesh.  "What's  his  name?" 

"Spottie,"  replied  Moore,  shortly,  as  he  made  ready  to 
mount. 

"Hold  on,  will  you!"  ordered  Jack,  peremptorily.  "I 
like  this  horse.  I  want  to  look  him  over." 

When  he  grasped  the  bridle-reins  out  of  the  cowboy's 
hand  Spottie  jumped  as  if  he  had  been  shot  at.  Bell- 
lounds  jerked  at  him  and  went  closer.  The  mustang 
reared,  snorting,  plunging  to  get  loose.  Then  Jack  Bell- 
lounds  showed  the  sudden  temper  for  which  he  was  noted. 
Red  stained  his  paie  cheeks. 

"Damn  you — come  down!"  he  shouted,  infuriated  at 
the  mustang,  and  with  both  hands  he  gave  a  powerful 
lunge.  Spottie  came  down,  and  stood  there,  trembling 
all  over,  his  ears  laid  back,  his  eyes  showing  fright  and 
pain.  Blood  dripped  from  his  mouth  where  the  bit  had 
cut  him. 

"I'll  teach  you  to  stand,"  said  Belllounds,  darkly. 
"  Moore,  lend  me  your  spurs.  I  want  to  try  him  out." 

"I  don't  lend  my  spurs — or  my  horse,  either,"  replied 
the  cowboy,  quietly,  with  a  stride  that  put  him  within 
reach  of  Spottie. 

The  other  cowboys  had  dropped  their  trappings  and 
stood  at  attention,  with  intent  gaze  and  mute  lips. 

" Is  he  your  horse? "  demanded  Jack,  with  a  quick  flush. 

"I  reckon  so,"  replied  Moore,  slowly.  "No  one  but 
me  ever  rode  him." 

"  Does  my  father  own  him  or  do  you  own  him? " 

"Well,  if  that's  the  way  you  figure — he  belongs  to  White 
Slides,"  returned  the  cowboy-  "I  never  bought  him.  I 
only  raised  him  from  a  colt,  broke  him,  and  rode  him." 

"  I  thought  so.  Moore,  he's  mine,  and  I'm  going  to  ride 
him  now.  Lend  me  spurs,  one  of  you  cowpunchers." 

4  41 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Nobody  made  any  motion  to  comply.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  suspense  at  hand  that  escaped  Belllounds. 

"I'll  ride  him  without  spurs,"  he  declared,  presently, 
and  again  he  turned  to  mount  the  mustang. 

"  Belllounds,  it  'd  be  better  for  you  not  to  ride  him  now," 
said  Moore,  coolly. 

"Why,  I'd  like  to  know?"  demanded  Belllounds,  with 
the  temper  of  one  who  did  not  tolerate  opposition. 

"  He's  the  only  horse  left  for  me  to  ride,"  answered  the 
cowboy.  "We're  branding  to-day.  Hudson  was  hurt 
yesterday.  He  was  foreman,  and  he  appointed  me  to  fill 
his  place.  I've  got  to  rope  yearlings.  Now,  if  you  get 
up  on  Spottie  you'll  excite  him.  He's  high-strung,  ner 
vous.  That  '11  be  bad  for  him,  as  he  hates  cutting-out  and 
roping.'* 

The  reasonableness  of  this  argument  was  lost  upon 
Belllounds. 

"  Moore,  maybe  it  'd  interest  you  to  know  that  I'm 
foreman  of  White  Slides,"  he.  asserted,  not  without 
loftiness. 

His  speech  manifestly  decided  something  vital  for  the 
cowboy. 

"Ahuh!  .  .  .  I'm  sure  interested  this  minute,"  replied 
Moore,  and  then,  stepping  to  the  side  of  the  mustang, 
with  swift  hands  he  unbuckled  the  cinch,  and  with  one 
sweep  h^  drew  saddle  and  blanket  to  the  ground. 

The  action  surprised  Belllounds.  He  stared.  There 
seemed  something  boyish  in  his  lack  of  comprehension. 
Then  his  temper  flamed. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  demanded,  with  a 
strident  note  in  his  voice.  "Put  that  saddle  back." 

"Not  much.  It's  my  saddle.  Cost  sixty  dollars  at 
Kremmling  last  year.  Good  old  hard-earned  saddle! . . . 
And  you  can't  ride  it.  Savvy?" 

A3 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Yes,  I  savvy,"  replied  Belllounds,  violently.  "Now 
you'll  savvy  what  I  say.  Ill  have  you  discharged." 

"Nope.  Too  late,"  said  Moore,  with  cool,  easy  scorn. 
"I  figured  that.  And  I  quit  a  minute  ago — when  you 
showed  what  little  regard  you  had  for  a  horse." 

"You  quit!  .  .  .  Well,  it's  damned  good  riddance.  I 
wouldn't  have  you  in  the  outfit." 

"You  couldn't  have  kept  me,  Buster  Jack." 

The  epithet  must  have  been  an  insult  to  Belllounds. 
"Don't  you  dare  call  me  that,"  he  burst  out,  furiously. 

Moore  pretended  surprise.  "Why  not?  It's  your  range 
name.  We  all  get  a  handle,  whether  we  like  it  or  not. 
There's  Montana  and  Blud  and  Lemme  Two  Bits.  They 
call  me  Professor.  Why  should  you  kick  on  yours?" 

"I  won't  stand  it  now.  Not  from  any  one — especially 
not  you." 

"Ahuh!  Well,  I'm  afraid  it  11  stick,"  replied  Moore, 
with  sarcasm.  "  It  sure  suits  you.  Don't  you  bust  every 
thing  you  monkey  with?  Your  old  dad  will  sure  be  glad 
to  see  you  bust  the  round-up  to-day — and  I  reckon  the 
outfit  to-morrow." 

"You  insolent  cowpuncher!"  shouted  Belllounds,  grow 
ing  beside  himself  with  rage.  "If  you  don't  shut  up  I'll 
bust  your  face." 

"Shut  up!  ...  Me?  Nope.  It  can't  be  did.  This  is 
a  free  country,  Buster  Jack."  There  was  no  denying 
Moore's  cool,  stinging  repetition  of  the  epithet  that  had 
so  affronted  Belllounds. 

"I  always  hated  you!"  he  rasped  out,  hoarsely.  Strik 
ing  hard  at  Moore,  he  missed,  but  a  second  effort  landed  a 
glancing  blow  on  the  cowboy's  face. 

Moore  staggered  back,  recovered  his  balance,  and,  hitting 
out  shortly,  he  returned  the  blow.  Belllounds  fell  against 
the  corral  fence,  which  upheld  him, 

43 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Buster  Jack — you're  crazy!"  cried  the  cowboy,  his 
eyes  flashing.  "Do  you  think  you  can  lick  me — after 
where  you've  been  these  three  years?" 

Like  a  maddened  boy  Belllounds  leaped  forward,  this 
time  his  increased  violence  and  wildness  of  face  expressive 
of  malignant  rage.  He  swung  his  arms  at  random.  Moore 
avoided  his  blows  and  planted  a  fist  squarely  on  his  ad 
versary's  snarling  mouth.  Belllounds  fell  with  a  thump. 
Ee  got  up  with  clumsy  haste,  but  did  not  rush  forward 
again.  His  big,  prominent  eyes  held  a  dark  and  ugly 
look.  His  lower  jaw  wabbled  as  he  panted  for  breath 
and  speech  at  once. 

"Moore — I'll  kill — you!"  he  hissed,  with  glance  flying 
everywhere  for  a  weapon.  From  ground  to  cowboys  he 
looked.  Bludsoe  was  the  only  one  packing  a  gun.  Bell 
lounds  saw  it,  and  he  was  so  swift  in  bounding  forward 
that  he  got  a  hand  on  it  before  Bludsoe  could  prevent. 

"Let  go!  Give  me— that  gun!  By  God!  I'll  fix  him!" 
yelled  Belllounds,  as  Bludsoe  grappled  with  him. 

There  was  a  sharp  struggle.  Bludsoe  wrenched  the 
other's  hands  free,  and,  pulling  the  gun,  he  essayed  to  throw 
it.  But  Belllounds  blocked  his  action  and  the  gun  fell  at 
their  feet. 

"  Grab  it ! "  sang  out  Bludsoe,  ringingly.  "  Quick,  some 
body!  The  damned  fool  '11  kill  Wils." 

Lem,  running  in,  kicked  the  gun  just  as  Belllounds 
reached  for  it.  When  it  rolled  against  the  fence  Jim  was 
there  to  secure  it.  Lem  likewise  grappled  with  the  strug 
gling  Belllounds. 

"Hyar,  you  Jack  Belllounds,"  said  Lem,  "couldn't  you 
see  Wils  wasn't  packin'  no  gun?  A-r'arin'  like  thet!  .  .  . 
Stop  your  rantin'  or  we'll  sure  handle  you  rough." 

"The  old  man's  comin',"  called  Jim,  warningly. 

The  rancher  appearedo    He  strode  swiftly,  ponderously. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

His  gray  hair  waved.  His  look  was  as  stern  as  that  of 
an  eagle. 

"What  the  hell's  goin'  on?"  he  roared. 

The  cowboys  released  Jack.  That  worthy,  sullen  and 
downcast,  muttering  to  himself,  stalked  for  the  house. 

"Jack,  stand  your  ground,"  called  old  Belllounds. 

But  the  son  gave  no  heed.  Once  he  looked  back  over 
his  shoulder,  and  his  dark  glance  saw  no  one  save  Moore. 

"Boss,  thar's  been  a  little  argyment,"  explained  Jim, 
as  with  swift  hand  he  hid  Bludsoe's  gun.  "Nuthin' 
much." 

"Jim,  you're  a  liar,"  replied  the  old  rancher. 

"Aw!"  exclaimed  Jim,  crestfallen. 

"What  're  you  hidin'?  .  .  .  You've  got  somethin'  there,, 
Gimme  thet  gun." 

Without  more  ado  Jim  handed  the  gun  over. 

"It's  mine,  boss,"  put  in  Bludsoe. 

"  Ahuh?  Wai,  what  was  Jim  hidin'  it  fer?"  demanded 
Belllounds. 

"Why,  I  jest  tossed  it  to  him — when  I — sort  of  j'ined  in 
with  the  argyment.  We  was  tusslin'  some  an'  I  didn't 
want  no  gun." 

How  characteristic  of  cowboys  that  they  lied  to  shield 
Jack  Belllounds!  But  it  was  futile  to  attempt  to  deceive 
the  old  rancher.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  been  forty 
years  dealing  with  all  kinds  of  men  and  events. 

"Bludsoe,  you  can't  fool  me,"  said  old  Bill,  calmly. 
He  had  roared  at  them,  and  his  eyes  still  flashed  like  blue 
fire,  but  he  was  calm  and  cool.  Returning  the  gun  to  its 
owner,  he  continued:  "I  reckon  you'd  spare  my  feelin's 
an'  lie  about  some  trick  of  Jack's.  Did  he  bust  out?" 

"Wai,  tolerable  like,"  replied  Bludsoe,  dryly. 

"Ahuh!    Tell  me,  then— an'  no  lies." 

Belllounds's  shrewd  eyes  had  rested  upon  Wilson  Moore 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

The  cowboy's  face  showed  the  red  marks  of  battle  and  tht 
white  of  passion. 

"I'm  not  going  to  lie,  you  can  bet  on  that,"  he  declared, 
forcefully. 

"Ahuh!  I  might  hev  knowed  you  an'  Jack  'd  clash," 
said  Beillounds,  gruffly.  "What  happened?" 

"  He  hurt  my  horse.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  there  'd 
been  no  trouble." 

A  light  leaped  up  in  the  old  man's  bold  eyes.  He  was 
a  lover  of  horses.  Many  hard  words,  and  blows,  too,  he 
had  dealt  cowboys  for  being  brutal. 

"  What 'd  he  do?" 

"Look  at  Spottie's  mouth." 

The  rancher's  way  of  approaching  a  horse  was  singularly 
different  from  his  son's,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
Spottie  knew  him  and  showed  no  uneasiness.  The  ex 
amination  took  only  a  moment. 

"Tongue  cut  bad.  Thet's  a  damn  shame.  Take  thet 
bridle  off.  .  .  .  There.  If  it  'd  been  an  ornery  hoss,  now. 
.  .  .  Moore,  how'd  this  happen?" 

"We  just  rode  in,"  replied  Wilson,  hurriedly.  "I  was 
saddling  Spottie  when  Jack  came  up.  He  took  a  shine 
to  the  mustang  and  wanted  to  ride  him.  When  Spottie 
reared — he's  shy  with  strangers — why,  Jack  gave  a  hell 

of  a  jerk  on  the  bridle.  The  bit  cut  Spottie Well,  that 

made  me  mad,  but  I  held  in.  I  objected  to  Jack  riding 
Spottie.  You  see,  Hudson  was  hurt  yesterday  and  he 
appointed  me  foreman  for  to-day.  I  needed  Spottie. 
But  your  son  couldn't  see  it,  and  that  made  me  sore. 
Jack  said  the  mustang  was  his — " 

"His?"  interrupted  Beillounds. 

"Yes.  He  claimed  Spottie.  Well,  he  wasn't  really 
mine,  so  I  gave  in.  When  I  threw  off  the  saddle,  which 
was  mine,  Jack  began  to  roar.  He  said  he  was  foreman 

46 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  he'd  have  me  discharged.     But  I  said  I'd  quit  already 
We  both  kept  getting  sorer  and  I  called  him  Buster  Jack, 
.  .  .  He  hit  me  first.    Then  we  fought.    I  reckon  I  was 
getting  the  best  of  him  when  he  made  a  dive  for  Bludsoe's 
gun.    And  that's  all." 

"Boss,  as  sure  as  I'm  a  born  cowman,"  put  in  Bludsoe, 
"he'd  hev  plugged  Wils  if  he'd  got  my  gun.  At  thet  he 
damn  near  got  it ! " 

The  old  man  stroked  his  scant  gray  beard  with  his 
huge,  steady  hand,  apparently  not  greatly  concerned  by 
the  disclosure. 

" Montana,  what  do  you  say?"  he  queried,  as  if  he  held 
strong  store  by  that  quiet  cowboy's  opinion. 

"Wai,  boss,"  replied  Jim,  reluctantly,  "Buster  Jack's 
temper  was  bad  onct,  but  now  it's  plumb  wuss." 

Whereupon  Belllounds  turned  to  Moore  with  a  gesture 
and  a  look  of  a  man  who,  in  justice  to  something  in  him 
self,  had  to  speak. 

"Wils,  it's  onlucky  you  clashed  with  Jack  right  off,"  he 
said.  "  But  thet  was  to  be  expected.  I  reckon  Jack  was 
in  the  wrong.  Thet  hoss  was  yours  by  all  a  cowboy  holds 
right  an'  square.  Mebbe  by  law  Spottie  belonged  to 
White  Slides  Ranch — to  me.  But  he's  yours  now,  fer  I 
give  him  to  you." 

"  Much  obliged,  Belllounds.  I  sure  do  appreciate  that," 
replied  Moore,  warmly.  "It's  what  anybody  'd  gamble 
Bill  Belllounds  would  do." 

"Ahuh!  An*  I'd  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you'd  stay  on 
to-day  an'  get  thet  brandin'  done." 

"All  right,  I'll  do  that  for  you,"  replied  Moore.  "  Lem, 
I  guess  you  won't  get  your  sleep  till  to-night.  Come  on." 

"Aw!"  sighed  Lem,  as  he  picked  up  his  bridle. 

Late  that  afternoon  Columbine  sat  upon  the  porch, 

47 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

watching  the  sunset.  It  had  been  a  quiet  day  for  her, 
mostly  indoors.  Once  only  had  she  seen  Jack,  and  then 
he  was  riding  by  toward  the  pasture,  whirling  a  lasso  round 
his  head.  Jack  could  ride  like  one  born  to  the  range,  but 
he  was  not  an  adept  in  the  use  of  a  rope.  Nor  had  Colum 
bine  seen  the  old  rancher  since  breakfast.  She  had  heard 
his  footsteps,  however,  pacing  slowly  up  and  down  his 
room. 

She  was  watching  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  rim 
ming  with  gold  the  ramparts  of  the  mountain  eastward, 
and  burning  a  crown  for  Old  White  Slides  peak.  A  dis 
tant  bawl  and  bellow  of  cattle  had  died  away.  The 
branding  was  over  for  that  fall.  How  glad  she  felt!  The 
wind,  beginning  to  grow  cold  as  the  sun  declined,  cooled 
her  hot  face.  In  the  solitude  of  her  room  Columbine  had 
cried  enough  that  day  to  scald  her  cheeks. 

Presently,  down  the  lane  between  the  pastures,  she  saw 
a  cowboy  ride  into  view.  Very  slowly  he  came,  leading 
another  horse.  Columbine  recognized  Lem  a  second  be 
fore  she  saw  that  he  was  leading  Pronto.  That  struck 
her  as  strange.  Another  glance  showed  Pronto  to  be 
limping.  Apparently  he  could  just  get  along,  and  that 
was  all.  Columbine  ran  out  in  dismay,  reaching  the  corral 
gate  before  Lem  did.  At  first  she  had  eyes  only  for  her 
beloved  mustang. 

"Oh,  Lem— Pronto's  hurt!"  she  cried. 

"Wai,  I  should  smile  he  is,"  replied  Lem. 

But  Lem  was  not  smiling.  And  when  he  wore  a  serious 
face  for  Columbine  something  had  indeed  happened.  The 
cowboy  was  the  color  of  dust  and  so  tired  that  he  reeled. 

"Lem,  he's  all  bloody!"  exclaimed  Columbine,  as  she 
ran  toward  Pronto. 

" Hyar,  you  jest  wait,"  ordered  Lem,  testily.  "Pronto's 
all  cut  up,  an'  you  gotta  hustle  some  linen  an'  salve." 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Columbine  flew  away  to  do  his  bidding,  and  so  quick 
and  Solent  was  she  that  when  she  got  back  to  the  corral 
she  was  out  of  breath.  Pronto  whinnied  as  she  fell,  pant 
ing,  on  her  knees  beside  Lem,  who  was  examining  bloody 
gashes  on  the  legs  of  the  mustang. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  no  great  harm  did,"  said  Lem,  with 
relief.  "But  he  shore  hed  a  close  shave.  Now  you  help 
me  doctor  him  up." 

"Yes — I'll  help,"  panted  Columbine.  "I've  done  this 
land — of  thing  often — but  never — to  Pronto.  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
was  afraid — he'd  been  gored  by  a  steer." 

"Wai,  he  come  damn  near  bein',"  replied  Lem,  grimly. 
MAn'  if  it  hedn't  been  fer  ridin*  you  don't  see  every  day, 
why  thet  ornery  Texas  steer  'd  hev  got  him." 

"Who  was  riding?  Lem,  was  it  you?  Oh,  I'll  never  be 
able  to  do  enough  for  you ! " 

"Wuss  luck,  it  weren't  me,"  said  Lem. 

"No?     Who,  then?" 

"Wai,  it  was  W:ls,  an'  he  made  me  swear  to  tell  you 
nuthin' — leastways  about  him." 

"Wils!  Did  he  save  Pronto?  .  .  .  And  didn't  want  you 
to  tell  me?  Lem,  something  has  happened.  You're  not 
like  yourself." 

"Miss  Collie,  I  reckon  I'm  nigh  all  in,"  replied  Lem, 
wearily.  "When  I  git  this  bandagin'  done  I'll  fall  right 
off  my  hoss." 

"But  you're  on  the  ground  now,  Lem,"  said  Columbine, 
with  a  nervous  laugh.  "What  happened?" 

"  Did  you  hear  about  the  argyment  this  mawnin*  ?  " 

"No.     What— who— " 

"You  can  ask  Ole  Bill  aboot  thet.  The  way  Pronto 
was  hurt  come  off  like  this.  Buster  Jack  rode  out  to  where 
we  was  brandin'  an'  jumped  his  hoss  over  a  fence  into  the 
pasture.  He  hed  a  rope  an'  he  got  to  chasin'  some  bosses 

49 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

over  thar.  One  was  Pronto,  an'  the  son-of-a-gun  some 
how  did  git  the  noose  over  Pronto's  head.  But  he  couldn't 
hold  it,  or  didn't  want  to,  fer  Pronto  broke  loose  an' 
jumped  the  fence.  This  wasn't  so  bad  as  far  as  it  went. 
But  one  of  them  bad  steers  got  after  Pronto.  He  run  an' 
sure  stepped  on  the  rope,  an'  fell.  The  big  steer  nearly 
piled  on  him.  Pronto  broke  some  records  then.  He  shore 
was  scared.  Howsoever  he  picked  out  rough  ground  an' 
run  plumb  into  some  dead  brush.  Reckon  thar  he  got 
cut  up.  We  was  all  a  good  ways  off.  The  steer  went 
bawlin'  an'  plungin'  after  Pronto.  Wils  yelled  fer  a  rifle, 
but  nobody  hed  one.  Nor  a  six-shooter,  either.  .  .  .  I'm 
goin'  back  to  packin'  a  gun.  Wai,  Wils  did  some  ridin' 
to  git  over  thar  in  time  to  save  Pronto." 

"Lem,  that  is  not  all,"  said  Columbine,  earnestly,  as 
the  cowboy  concluded.  Her  knowledge  of  the  range  told 
her  that  Lem  had  narrated  nothing  so  far  which  could 
have  been  cause  for  his  cold,  grim,  evasive  manner;  and 
her  woman's  intuition  divined  a  catastrophe. 

"Nope Wils's  hoss  fell  on  him.1' 

Lem  broke  that  final  news  with  all  a  cowboy's  bluntness. 

"Was  he  hurt — Lem!"  cried  Columbine. 

"Say,  Miss  Collie,"  remonstrated  Lem,  "we're  doctorin' 
up  your  hoss.  You  needn't  drop  everythin'  an'  grab  me 
like  thet.  An'  you're  white  as  a  sheet,  too.  It  ain't 
nuthin'  much  fer  a  cowboy  to  hev  a  hoss  fall  on  him." 

"Lem  Billings,  I'll  hate  you  if  you  don't  tell  me  quick," 
flashed  Columbine,  fiercely. 

"Ahuh!  So  thet's  how  the  land  lays,"  replied  Len\ 
shrewdly.  "Wai,  I'm  sorry  to  tell  you  thet  Wils  was 
bad  hurt.  Now,  not  real  bad! .  .  .  The  hoss  fell  on  his  leg 
an'  broke  it.  I  cut  off  his  boot.  His  foot  was  all  smashed. 
But  thar  wasn't  any  other  hurt — honest!  They're  talon* 
to  Kremmlin'." 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Ah!"  Columbine's  low  cry  sounded  strangely  in  her 
ears,  as  if  some  one  else  had  uttered  it. 

"Buster  Jack  made  two  bursts  this  hyar  day,"  con 
cluded  Lem,  reflectively.  "  Miss  Collie,  I  ain't  shore  how 
you're  regardin'  thet  individool,  but  I'm  tellin'  you  this, 
fer  your  own  good.  He's  bad  medicine.  He  has  his  old 
man's  temper  thet  riles  up  at  nuthin*  an'  never  felt  a 
halter.  Wusser  'n  thet,  he's  spoiled  an'  he  acts  like  a  colt 
thet  'd  tasteu  loco.  The  idee  of  his  ropin'  Pronto  right 
thar  near  the  round-up!  Any  one  would  think  he  jest 
come  West.  Old  Bill  is  no  fool.  But  he  wears  blinders 
when  he  looks  at  his  son.  I'm  predictin*  bad  days  fer 
White  Slides  Ranch." 


CHAPTER  IV 

ONLY  one  man  at  Meeker  appeared  to  be  attracted 
by  the  news  that  Rancher  Bill  Belllou  ,ds  was  offer 
ing  employment.  This  was  a  little  cadaverous-looking 
fellow,  apparently  neither  young  nor  old,  who  said  his 
name  was  Bent  Wade.  He  had  drifted  into  Meeker  with 
two  poor  horses  and  a  pack. 

"  Whar  you  from?"  asked  the  innkeeper,  observing  how 
Wade  cared  for  his  horses  before  he  thought  of  himself. 
The  query  had  to  be  repeated. 

"Cripple  Creek.  I  was  cook  for  some  miners  an*  I 
panned  gold  between  times,"  was  the  reply. 

"Humph!  Thet  oughter  been  a  better-payin'  job  than 
any  to  be  hed  hereabouts." 

"  Yes,  got  big  pay  there,"  said  Wade,  with  a  sigh. 

"What  'd  you  leave  fer?" 

"We  hed  a  fight  over  the  diggin's  an'  I  was  the  only  one 
left.  Ill  tell  you.  ..."  Whereupon  Wade  sat  down  on 
a  box,  removed  his  old  sombrero,  and  began  to  talk.  An 
idler  sauntered  over,  attracted  by  something.  Then  a 
miner  happened  by  to  halt  and  join  the  group. 

Next,  old  Kemp,  the  patriarch  of  the  village,  came  and 
listened  attentively.  Wade  seemed  to  have  a  strange 
magnetism,  a  magic  tongue. 

He  was  small  of  stature,  but  wiry  and  muscular.  His 
garments  were  old,  soiled,  worn.  When  he  removed  the 
wide-brimmed  sombrero  he  exposed  a  remarkable  face. 
It  was  smooth  except  for  a  drooping  mustache,  and  pallid, 

52 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

with  drops  of  sweat  standing  out  on  the  high,  broad 
forehead;  gaunt  and  hollow  -  cheeked,  with  an  enor 
mous  nose,  and  cavernous  eyes  set  deep  under  shaggy 
brows.  These  features,  however,  were  not  so  striking 
in  themselves.  Long,  sloping,  almost  invisible  lines  of 
pain,  the  shadow  of  mystery  and  gloom  in  the  deep- 
set,  dark  eyes,  a  sad  harmony  between  features  and 
expression,  these  marked  the  man's  face  with  a  record 
no  keen  eye  could  miss. 

Wade  told  a  terrible  tale  of  gold  and  blood  and  death. 
It  seemed  to  relieve  him.  His  face  changed,  and  lost 
what  might  have  been  called  its  tragic  light,  its  driven 
intensity. 

His  listeners  shook  their  heads  in  awe.  Hard  tales 
were  common  in  Colorado,  but  this  one  was  exceptional. 
Two  of  the  group  left  without  comment.  Old  Kemp 
stared  with  narrow,  half-recognizing  eyes  at  the  new 
comer. 

"Wai!  Wai!"  ejaculated  the  innkeeper.  "It  do  beat 
hell  what  can  happen !  .  .  .  Stranger,  will  you  put  up  your 
bosses  an'  stay?" 

"I'm  lookin'  for  work,"  replied  Wade. 

It  was  then  that  mention  was  made  of  Belllounds  send 
ing  to  Meeker  for  hands. 

"Old  Bill  Belllounds  thet  settled  Middle  Park  an'  made 
friends  with  the  Utes,"  said  Wade,  as  if  certain  of  his 
facts. 

"Yep,  you  have  Bill  to  rights.     Do  you  know  him?" 

"I  seen  him  once  twenty  years  ago." 

"Ever  been  to  Middle  Park?  Belllounds  owns  ranches 
there,"  said  the  innkeeper. 

"He  ain't  livin'  in  the  Park  now,"  interposed  Kemp. 
"He's  at  White  Slides,  I  reckon,  these  last  eight  or  ten 
years.  Thet's  over  the  Gore  Range." 

53 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Prospected  all  through  that  country,"  said  Wade. 

"Wai,  it's  a  fine  part  of  Colorado.  Hay  an'  stock 
country — too  high  fer  grain.  Did  you  mean  you'd  been 
through  the  Park?" 

"Once — long  ago,"  replied  Wade,  staring  with  his  great, 
cavernous  eyes  into  space.  Some  memory  of  Middle 
Park  haunted  him. 

"Wai,  then,  I  won't  be  steerin'  you  wrong,"  said  the 
innkeeper.  "I  like  thet  country.  Some  people  don't. 
An'  I  say  if  you  can  cook  or  pack  or  punch  cows  or  'most 
anythin'  you'll  find  a  bunk  with  Old  Bill.  I  understand 
he  was  needin'  a  hunter  most  of  all.  Lions  an'  wolves 
bad !  Can  you  hunt  ? ' ' 

"Hey?"  queried  Wade,  absently,  as  he  inclined  his  ear 
"I'm  deaf  on  one  side." 

"Are  you  a  good  man  with  dogs  an*  guns?"  shouted  his 
questioner. 

"Tolerable,"  replied  Wade. 

"Then  you're  sure  of  a  job." 

" I'll  go.     Much  obliged  to  you." 

"Not  a-tall.  I'm  doin'  Belllounds  a  favor.  Reckon 
you'll  put  up  here  to-night?" 

"I  always  sleep  out.  But  I'll  buy  feed  an*  supplies," 
replied  Wade,  as  he  turned  to  his  horses. 

Old  Kemp  trudged  down  the  road,  wagging  his  gray 
head  as  if  he  was  contending  with  a  memory  sadly  failing 
him.  An  hour  later  when  Bent  Wade  rode  out  of  town 
he  passed  Kemp,  and  hailed  him.  The  old-timer  suddenly 
slapped  his  leg:  "By  Golly!  I  knowed  I'd  met  him 
before!" 

Later,  he  said  with  a  show  of  gossipy  excitement  to  his 
friend  the  innkeeper,  "Thet  fellar  was  Bent  Wade!" 

"So  he  told  me,"  returned  the  other. 

"But  didn't  you  never  hear  of  him?    Bent  Wade?" 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Now  you  tax  me,  thet  name  do  'pear  familiar.  But 
dash  take  it,  I  can't  remember.  I  knowed  he  was  some 
body,  though.  Hope  I  didn't  wish  a  gun-fighter  or  out 
law  on  Old  Bill.  Who  was  he,  anyhow?" 

"They  call  him  Hell-Bent  Wade.  I  seen  him  in  Wyo- 
min',  whar  he  were  a  stage-driver.  But  I  never  heerd  who 
he  was  an'  what  he  was  till  years  after.  Thet  was  onct  I 
dropped  down  into  Boulder.  Wade  was  thar,  all  shot  up, 
bein'  nussed  by  Sam  Coles.  Sam's  dead  now.  He  was 
a  friend  of  Wade's  an'  knowed  him  fer  long.  Wai,  I  heerd 
all  thet  anybody  ever  heerd  about  him,  I  reckon.  Ac- 
cordin'  to  Coles  this  hyar  Hell-Bent  Wade  was  a  strange, 
wonderful  sort  of  fellar.  He  had  the  most  amazin'  ways. 
He  could  do  anythin'  under  the  sun  better  'n  any  one  else. 
Bad  with  guns!  He  never  stayed  in  one  place  fer  long. 
He  never  hunted  trouble,  but  trouble  follered  him.  As 
I  remember  Coles,  thet  was  Wade's  queer  idee — he 
couldn't  shake  trouble.  No  matter  whar  he  went,  always 
thar  was  hell.  Thet's  what  gave  him  the  name  Heil-Bent. 
.  .  .  An'  Coles  swore  thet  Wade  was  the  whitest  man  he 
ever  knew.  Heart  of  gold,  he  said.  Always  savin'  some 
body,  helpin'  somebody,  givin'  his  money  or  time — never 
thinkin'  of  himself  a-tall.  .  .  .  When  he  began  to  tell  thet 
story  about  Cripple  Creek  then  my  ole  head  begun  to  ache 
with  rememberin'.  Fer  I'd  heerd  Bent  Wade  talk  before. 
Jest  the  same  kind  of  story  he  told  hyar,  only  wuss. 
Lordy !  but  thet  fellar  has  seen  times.  An'  queerest  of  all 
is  thet  idee  he  has  how  hell's  on  his  trail  an'  everywhere  he 
roams  it  ketches  up  with  him,  an'  thar  he  meets  the  man 
who's  got  to  hear  his  tale!" 

Sunset  found  Bent  Wade  far  up  the  valley  of  White 
River  under  the  shadow  of  the  Flat  Top  Mountains. 
It  was  beautiful  country.     Grassy  hills,  with  colored 

55 


.    THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

aspen  groves,  swelled  up  on  his  left,  and  across  the  brawl« 
ing  stream  rose  a  league-long  slope  of  black  spruce,  above 
which  the  bare  red-and-gray  walls  of  the  range  towered, 
glorious  with  the  blaze  of  sinking  sun.  White  patches  of 
snow  showed  in  the  sheltered  nooks.  Wade's  gaze  rested 
longest  on  the  colored  heights. 

By  and  by  the  narrow  valley  opened  into  a  park,  at  the 
upper  end  of  which  stood  a  log  cabin.  A  few  cattle  and 
horses  grazed  in  an  inclosed  pasture.  The  trail  led  by  the 
cabin.  As  Wade  rode  up  a  bushy-haired  man  came  out 
of  the  door,  rifle  in  hand.  He  might  have  been  going  out 
to  hunt,  but  his  scrutiny  of  Wade  was  that  of  a  lone 
settler  in  a  wild  land. 

"Howdy,  stranger!"  he  said. 

"Good  evenin',"  replied  Wade.  "Reckon  you're  Blair 
an'  I'm  nigh  the  headwaters  of  this  river?" 

"Yep,  a  matter  of  three  miles  to  Trapper's  Lake." 

"My  name's  Wade.  I'm  packin'  over  to  take  a  job 
With  Bill  Belllounds." 

"Git  down  an'  come  in,"  returned  Blair.  "Bill's  man 
stopped  with  me  some  time  ago." 

"Obliged,  I'm  sure,  but  I'll  be  goin'  on,"  responded 
Wade.  "Do  you  happen  to  have  a  hunk  of  deer  meat? 
Game  powerful  scarce  comin'  up  this  valley." 

"  Lots  of  deer  an'  elk  higher  up.  I  chased  a  bunch  of 
more  'n  thirty,  I  reckon,  right  out  of  my  pasture  this 
mornin'." 

Blair  crossed  to  an  open  shed  near  by  and  returned  with 
half  a  deer  haunch,  which  he  tied  upon  Wade's  pack- 
horse. 

"  My  ole  woman's  ailin'.  Do  you  happen  to  hev  some 
terbaccer  ? " 

"  I  sure  do — both  smokin'  an'  chewin',  an'  I  can  spare 
more  chewin'.  A  little  goes  a  long  ways  with  me." 

56 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wai,  gimme  some  of  both,  most  chewin,'"  replied 
Blair,  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"You  acquainted  with  Belllounds?"  asked  Wade,  as 
he  handed  over  the  tobacco. 

"Wai,  yes,  everybody  knows  Bill.  You'd  never  find  a 
whiter  boss  in  these  hills." 

"Has  he  any  family?" 

"Now,  I  can't  say  as  to  thet,"  replied  Blair.  "I  heerd 
he  lost  a  wife  years  ago.  Mebbe  he  married  ag'in.  But 
Bill's  gittin'  along." 

"Good  day  to  you,  Blair,"  said  Wade,  and  took  up  his 
bridle. 

"Good  day  an1  good  luck.  Take  the  right-hand  trail. 
Better  trot  up  a  bit,  if  you  want  to  make  camp  before 
dark." 

Wade  soon  entered  the  spruce  forest.  Then  he  came  to 
a  shallow,  roaring  river.  The  horses  drank  the  water, 
foaming  white  and  amber  around  their  knees,  and  then 
with  splash  and  thump  they  forded  it  over  the  slippery 
rocks.  As  they  cracked  out  upon  the  trail  a  covey  of 
grouse  whirred  up  into  the  low  branches  of  spruce-trees. 
They  were  tame. 

"That's  somethm'  like,"  said  Wade.  "First  birds  I've 
seen  this  fall.  Reckon  I  can  have  stew  any  day." 

He  halted  his  horse  and  made  a  move  to  dismount,  but 
with  his  eyes  on  the  grouse  he  hesitated.  "Tame  as 
chickens,  an'  they  sure  are  pretty." 

Then  he  rode  on,  leading  his  pack-horse.  The  trail  was 
not  steep,  although  in  places  it  had  washed  out,  thus 
hindering  a  steady  trot.  As  he  progressed  the  forest  grew 
thick  and  darker,  and  the  fragrance  of  pine  and  spruce 
filled  the  air.  A  dreamy  roar  of  water  rushing  over  rocks 
rang  in  the  traveler's  ears.  It  receded  at  times,  then 
grew  louder.  Presently  the  forest  shade  ahead  lightened 

3  57 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  he  rode  out  into  a  wide  space  where  green  moss  and 
flags  and  flowers  surrounded  a  wonderful  spring-hole. 
Sunset  gleams  shone  through  the  trees  to  color  the  wide, 
round  pool.  It  was  shallow  all  along  the  margin,  with  a 
deep,  large  green  hole  in  the  middle,  where  the  water 
boiled  up.  Trout  were  feeding  on  gnats  and  playing  on 
the  surface,  and  some  big  ones  left  wakes  behind  them  as 
they  sped  to  deeper  water.  Wade  had  an  appreciative 
eye  for  all  this  beauty,  his  gaze  lingering  longest  upon  the 
flowers. 

"Wild  woods  is  the  place  for  me,"  he  soliloquized,  as 
the  cool  wind  fanned  his  cheeks  and  the  sweet  tang  of 
evergreen  tingled  his  nostrils.  "But  sure  I'm  most 
haunted  in  these  lonely,  silent  places." 

Bent  Wade  had  the  look  of  a  haunted  man.  Perhaps 
the  consciousness  he  confessed  was  part  of  his  secret. 

Twilight  had  come  when  again  he  rode  out  into  the 
open.  Trapper's  Lake  lay  before  him,  a  beautiful  sheet 
of  water,  mirroring  the  black  slopes  and  the  fringed  spruces 
.•pd  the  flat  peaks.  Over  all  its  gray,  twilight-softened 
surface  showed  little  swirls  and  boils  and  splashes  where 
the  myriads  of  trout  were  rising.  The  trail  led  out  over 
open  grassy  shores,  with  a  few  pines  straggling  down  to 
the  lake,  and  clumps  of  spruces  raising  dark  blurs  against 
the  background  of  gleaming  lake.  Wade  heard  a  sharp 
crack  of  hoofs  on  rock,  and  he  knew  he  had  disturbed  deer 
at  their  drinking;  also  he  heard  a  ring  of  horns  on  the 
branch  of  a  tree,  and  was  sure  an  elk  was  slipping  off 
through  the  woods.  Across  the  lake  he  saw  a  camp-fire 
and  a  pale,  sharp-pointed  object  that  was  a  trapper's 
tent  or  an  Indian's  tepee. 

Selecting  a  camp-site  for  himself,  he  unsaddled  his  horse, 
threw  the  pack  off  the  other,  and,  hobbling  both  animals, 
he  turned  them  loose.  His  roll  of  bedding,  roped  in  can- 

58 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

vas  tarpaulin,  he  threw  under  a  spruce-tree.  Then  he 
opened  his  oxhide-covered  packs  and  laid  out  utensils 
and  bags,  little  and  big.  All  his  movements  were  methodi 
cal,  yet  swift,  accurate,  habitual.  He  was  not  thinking 
about  what  he  was  doing.  It  took  him  some  little  time 
to  find  a  suitable  log  to  split  for  fire-wood,  and  when  he 
had  started  a  blaze  night  had  fallen,  and  the  light  as  it 
grew  and  brightened  played  fantastically  upon  the  iso 
lating  shadows. 

Lid  and  pot  of  the  little  Dutch  oven  he  threw  separately 
upon  the  sputtering  fire,  and  while  they  heated  he  washed 
his  hands,  mixed  the  biscuits,  cut  slices  of  meat  off  the 
deer  haunch,  and  put  water  on  to  boil.  He  broiled  his 
meat  on  the  hot,  red  coals,  and  laid  it  near  on  clean  pine 
chips,  while  he  waited  for  bread  to  bake  and  coffee  to  boil. 
The  smell  of  wood-smoke  and  odorous  steam  from  pots 
and  the  fragrance  of  spruce  mingled  together,  keen,  sweet, 
appetizing.  Then  he  ate  his  simple  meal  hungrily,  with 
the  content  of  the  man  who  had  fared  worse. 

After  he  had  satisfied  himself  he  washed  his  utensils 
and  stowed  them  away,  with  the  bags.  Whereupon  his 
movements  acquired  less  dexterity  and  speed.  The  rest 
hour  had  come.  Still,  like  the  long-experienced  man  in 
the  open,  he  looked  around  for  more  to  do,  and  his  gaze 
fell  upon  his  weapons,  lying  on  his  saddle.  His  rifle  was 
a  Henry — shiny  and  smooth  from  long  service  and  care. 
His  small  gun  was  a  Colt's  .45.  It  had  been  carried  in  a 
saddle  holster.  Wade  rubbed  the  rifle  with  his  hands, 
and  then  with  a  greasy  rag  which  he  took  from  the  sheath. 
After  that  he  held  the  rifle  to  the  heat  of  the  fire.  A 
squall  of  rain  had  overtaken  him  that  day,  wetting  his 
weapons.  A  subtle  and  singular  difference  seemed  to 
show  in  the  way  he  took  up  the  Colt's.  His  action  was 
slow,  his  look  reluctant.  The  small  gun  was  not  merely 

59 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

a  thing  of  steel  and  powder  and  ball.  He  dried  it  and 
rubbed  it  with  care,  but  not  with  love,  and  then  he  stowed 
it  away. 

Next  Wade  unrolled  his  bed  under  the  spruce,  with  one 
end  of  the  tarpaulin  resting  on  the  soft  mat  of  needles. 
On  top  of  that  came  the  two  woolly  sheepskins,  which  he 
used  to  lie  upon,  then  his  blankets,  and  over  all  the  other 
end  of  the  tarpaulin. 

This  ended  his  tasks  for  the  day.  He  lighted  his  pipe 
and  composed  himself  beside  the  camp-fire  to  smoke  and 
rest  awhile  before  going  to  bed.  The  silence  of  the  wilder 
ness  enfolded  lake  and  shore;  yet  presently  it  came  to  be 
a  silence  accentuated  by  near  and  distant  sounds,  faint, 
wild,  lonely — the  low  hum  of  falling  water,  the  splash  of 
tiny  waves  on  the  shore,  the  song  of  insects,  and  the  dis 
mal  hoot  of  owls. 

"Bill  Belllounds — an'  he  needs  a  hunter,"  soliloquized 
Bent  Wade,  with  gloomy,  penetrating  eyes,  seeing  far 
through  the  red  embers.  "That  will  suit  me  an'  change 
my  luck,  likely.  Livin'  in  the  woods,  away  from  people 
— I  could  stick  to  a  job  like  that.  .  .  .  But  if  this  White 
Slides  is  close  to  the  old  trail  I'll  never  stay." 

He  sighed,  and  a  darker  shadow,  not  from  flickering 
fire,  overspread  his  cadaverous  face.  Eighteen  years  ago 
he  had  driven  the  woman  he  loved  away  from  him,  out 
into  the  world  with  her  baby  girl.  Never  had  he  rested 
beside  a  camp-fire  that  that  old  agony  did  not  recur  I 
Jealous  fool !  Too  late  he  had  discovered  his  fatal  blunder; 
and  then  had  begun  a  search  over  Colorado,  ending  not 
a  hundred  miles  across  the  wild  mountains  from  where  he 
brooded  that  lonely  hour — a  search  ended  by  news  of  the 
massacre  of  a  wagon-train  by  Indians. 

That  was  Bent  Wade's  secret. 

And  no  earthly  sufferings  could  have  been  crueler  than 

60 


v    THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

his  agony  and  remorse,  as  through  the  long  years  he 
wandered  on  and  on.  The  very  good  that  he  tried  to  do 
seemed  to  foment  evil.  The  wisdom  that  grew  out  of  his 
suffering  opened  pitfalls  for  his  wandering  feet.  The  wild- 
ness  of  men  and  the  passion  of  women  somehow  waited 
with  incredible  fatality  for  that  hour  when  chance  led  him 
into  their  lives.  He  had  toiled,  he  had  given,  he  had 
fought,  he  had  sacrificed,  he  had  killed,  he  had  endured 
for  the  human  nature  which  in  his  savage  youth  he  had 
betrayed.  Yet  out  of  his  supreme  and  endless  striving 
to  undo,  to  make  reparation,  to  give  his  life,  to  find  God, 
had  come,  it  seemed  to  Wade  in  his  abasement,  only  a 
driving  torment. 

But  though  his  thought  and  emotion  fluctuated,  vary 
ing,  wandering,  his  memory  held  a  fixed  and  changeless 
picture  of  a  woman,  fair  and  sweet,  with  eyes  of  nameless 
blue,  and  face  as  white  as  a  flower. 

"Baby  would  have  been — let's  see — 'most  nineteen 
years  old  now — if  she'd  lived,"  he  said.  "A  big  girl,  I 
reckon,  like  her  mother.  .  .  .  Strange  how,  as  I  grow  older, 
I  remember  better!" 

The  night  wind  moaned  through  the  spruces;  dark 
clouds  scudded  across  the  sky,  blotting  out  the  bright 
stars;  a  steady,  low  roar  of  water  came  from  the  outlet 
of  the  lake.  The  camp-fire  flickered  and  burned  out,  so 
that  no  sparks  blew  into  the  blackness,  and  the  red  embers 
glowed  and  paled  and  crackled.  Wade  at  length  got  up 
and  made  ready  for  bed.  He  threw  back  tarpaulin  and 
blankets,  and  laid  his  rifle  alongside  where  he  could  cover 
it.  His  coat  served  for  a  pillow  and  he  put  the  Colt's 
gun  under  that ;  then  pulling  off  his  boots,  he  slipped  into 
bed,  dressed  as  he  was,  and,  like  all  men  in  the  open,  at 
once  fell  asleep. 

For  Wade,  and  for  countless  men  like  him,  who  for 

61 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

many  years  had  roamed  the  West,  this  sleeping  alone  in 
wild  places  held  both  charm  and  peril.  But  the  fascina 
tion  of  it  was  only  a  vague  realization,  and  the  danger 
was  laughed  at. 

Over  Bent  Wade's  quiet  form  the  shadows  played,  the 
spruce  boughs  waved,  the  piny  needles  rustled  down,  the 
wind  moaned  louder  as  the  night  advanced.  By  and  by 
the  horses  rested  from  their  grazing;  the  insects  ceased  to 
hum;  and  the  continuous  roar  of  water  dominated  the 
solitude.  If  wild  animals  passed  Wade's  camp  they  gave 
it  a  wide  berth. 

Sunrise  found  Wade  on  the  trail,  climbing  high  up 
above  the  lake,  making  for  the  pass  over  the  range.  He 
walked,  leading  his  horses  up  a  zigzag  trail  that  bore  the 
tracks  of  recent  travelers.  Although  this  country  was 
sparsely  settled,  yet  there  were  men  always  riding  from 
camp  to  camp  or  from  one  valley  town  to  another.  Wade 
never  tarried  on  a  well-trodden  trail. 

As  he  climbed  higher  the  spruce-trees  grew  smaller,  no 
longer  forming  a  green  aisle  before  him,  and  at  length  they 
became  dwarfed  and  stunted,  and  at  last  failed  altogether. 
Soon  he  was  above  timber-line  and  out  upon  a  flat-topped 
mountain  range,  where  in  both  directions  the  land  rolled 
and  dipped,  free  of  tree  or  shrub,  colorful  with  grass  and 
flowers.  The  elevation  exceeded  eleven  thousand  feet. 
A  whipping  wind  swept  across  the  plain-land.  The  sun 
was  pale-bright  in  the  east,  slowly  being  obscured  by 
gray  clouds.  Snow  began  to  fall,  first  in  scudding,  scanty 
flakes,  but  increasing  until  the  air  was  full  of  a  great, 
fleecy  swirl.  Wade  rode  along  the  rim  of  a  mountain 
wall,  watching  a  beautiful  snow-storm  falling  into  the 
brown  gulf  beneath  him.  Once  as  he  headed  round  a 
break  he  caught  sight  of  mountain-sheep  cuddled  under  a 

62 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

protecting  shelf.  The  snow-squall  blew  away,  like  a  re 
ceding  wall,  leaving  grass  and  flowers  wet.  As  the  dark 
clouds  parted,  the  sun  shone  warmer  out  of  the  blue. 
Gray  peaks,  with  patches  of  white,  stood  up  above  their 
black-timbered  slopes. 

Wade  soon  crossed  the  flat-topped  pass  over  the  range 
and  faced  a  descent,  rocky  and  bare  at  first,  but  yielding 
gradually  to  the  encroachment  of  green.  He  left  the  cold 
winds  and  bleak  trails  above  him.  In  an  hour,  when  he 
was  half  down  the  slope,  the  forest  had  become  warm 
and  dry,  fragrant  and  still.  At  length  he  rode  out  upon 
the  brow  of  a  last  wooded  bench  above  a  grassy  valley, 
where  a  bright,  winding  stream  gleamed  in  the  sun. 
While  the  horses  rested  Wade  looked  about  him.  Nature 
never  tired  him.  If  he  had  any  peace  it  emanated  from 
the  silent  places,  the  solemn  hills,  the  flowers  and  animals 
of  the  wild  and  lonely  land. 

A  few  straggling  pines  shaded  this  last  low  hill  above 
the  valley.  Grass  grew  luxuriantly  there  in  the  open,  but 
not  under  the  trees,  where  the  brown  needle-mats  jealously 
obstructed  the  green.  Clusters  of  columbines  waved  their 
graceful,  sweet,  pale-blue  flowers  that  Wade  felt  a  joy  in 
seeing.  He  loved  flowers — columbines,  the  glory  of  Colo 
rado,  came  first,  and  next  the  many-hued  purple  asters, 
and  then  the  flaunting  spikes  of  paint-brush,  and  after 
them  the  nameless  and  numberless  wild  flowers  that 
decked  the  mountain  meadows  and  colored  the  grass  of 
the  aspen  groves  and  peeped  out  of  the  edge  of  snow- 
fields. 

"Strange  how  it  seems  good  to  live — when  I  look  at  a 
columbine — or  watch  a  beaver  at  his  work — or  listen  to 
the  bugle  of  an  elk!"  mused  Bent  Wade.  He  wondered 
why;  with  all  his  life  behind  him,  he  could  still  find  com 
fort  in  these  things. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Then  he  rode  on  his  way.  The  grassy  valley,  with  its 
winding  stream,  slowly  descended  and  widened,  and  left 
foothill  and  mountain  far  behind.  Far  across  a  wide 
plain  rose  another  range,  black  and  bold  against  the  blue. 
In  the  afternoon  Wade  reached  Elgeria,  a  small  hamlet, 
but  important  by  reason  of  its  being  on  the  main  stage 
line,  and  because  here  miners  and  cattlemen  bought  sup 
plies.  It  had  one  street,  so  wide  it  appeared  to  be  a 
square,  on  which  faced  a  line  of  bold  board  houses  with 
high,  flat  fronts.  Wade  rode  to  the  inn  where  the  stage 
coaches  made  headquarters.  It  suited  him  to  feed  and 
rest  his  horses  there,  and  partake  of  a  meal  himself,  before 
resuming  his  journey. 

The  proprietor  was  a  stout,  pleasant-faced  little  woman, 
loquacious  and  amiable,  glad  to  see  a  stranger  for  his  own 
sake  rather  than  from  considerations  of  possible  profit. 
Though  Wade  had  never  before  visited  Elgeria,  he  soon 
knew  all  about  the  town,  and  the  miners  up  in  the  hills, 
and  the  only  happenings  of  moment — the  arrival  and  de 
parture  of  stages. 

"Prosperous  place,"  remarked  Wade.  "I  saw  that. 
An'  it  ought  to  be  growin'." 

"Not  so  prosperous  fer  me  as  it  uster  be,"  replied  the 
lady.  "We  did  well  when  my  husband  was  alive,  before 
our  competitor  come  to  town.  He  runs  a  hotel  where 
miners  can  drink  an'  gamble.  I  don't.  .  .  .  But  I  reckon 
I've  no  cause  to  complain.  I  live." 

"Who  runs  the  other  hotel?" 

"  Man  named  Smith.  Reckon  thet's  not  his  real  name. 
I've  had  people  here  who — but  it  ain't  no  matter." 

"Men  change  their  names,"  replied  Wade. 

"Stranger,  air  you  packin'  through  or  goin'  to  stay?" 

"On  my  way  to  White  Slides  Ranch,  where  I'm  goin9 
to  work  for  Belllounds.  Do  you  know  him  ?" 

64 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Know  Bill  Belllounds?  Me?  Wai,  he's  the  best  friend 
*  fiver  had  when  I  was  at  Kremmlin'.  I  lived  there  several 
years.  My  husband  had  stock  there.  In  fact,  Bill  started 
us  in  the  cattle  business.  But  we  got  out  of  there  an'  come 
here,  where  Bob  died,  an'  I've  been  stuck  ever  since." 

"Everybody  has  a  good  word  for  Belllounds,"  observed 
Wade. 

"  You'll  never  hear  a  bad  one,"  replied  the  woman,  with 
cheerful  warmth.  "  Bill  never  had  but  one  fault,  an'  peo 
ple  loved  him  fer  thet." 

"What  was  it?" 

"He's  got  a  wild  boy  thet  he  thinks  the  sun  rises  an* 
sets  in.  Buster  Jack,  they  call  him.  He  used  to  come 
here  often.  But  Bill  sent  him  away  somewhere.  The 
boy  was  spoiled.  I  saw  his  mother  years  ago — she's  dead 
this  long  time — an'  she  was  no  wife  fer  Bill  Belllounds. 
Jack  took  after  her.  An'  Bill  was  thet  woman's  slave. 
When  she  died  all  his  big  heart  went  to  the  son,  an'  thet 
accounts.  Jack  will  never  be  any  good." 

Wade  thoughtfully  nodded  his  head,  as  if  he  under 
stood,  and  was  pondering  other  possibilities. 

"Is  he  the  only  child?" 

"There's  a  girl,  but  she's  not  Bill's  kin.  He  adopted 
ner  when  she  was  a  baby.  An'  Jack's  mother  hated  this 
child — jealous,  we  used  to  think,  because  it  might  grow 
up  an'  get  some  of  Bill's  money." 

"What's  the  girl's  name?"  asked  Wade. 

"  Columbine.  She  was  over  here  last  summer  with  Old 
Bill.  They  stayed  with  me.  It  was  then  Bill  had  hard 
words  with  Smith  across  the  street.  Bill  was  resentin' 
somethin'  Smith  put  in  my  way.  Wai,  the  lass  's  the 
prettiest  I  ever  seen  in  Colorado,  an'  as  good  as  she's 
pretty.  Old  Bill  hinted  to  me  he'd  likely  make  a  match 
between  her  an'  his  son  Jack.  An'  I  ups  an'  told  him,  if 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Jack  hadn't  turned  over  a  new  leaf  when  he  comes  home, 
thet  such  a  marriage  would  be  tough  on  Columbine. 
Whewi  but  Old  Bill  was  mad.  He  jest  can't  stand  a  word 
ag'in'  thet  Buster  Jack." 

"  Columbine  Belllounds,"  mused  Wade.  "  Queer  name/' 

"  Oh,  I've  knowed  three  girls  named  Columbine.  Don't 
you  know  the  flower?  It's  common  in  these  parts.  Very 
delicate,  like  a  sago  lily,  only  paler." 

"Were  you  livin'  in  Kremmlin'  when  Bellloundg 
adopted  the  girl?"  asked  Wade. 

"Laws  no!"  was  the  reply.  "Thet  was  long  before  I 
come  to  Middle  Park.  But  I  heerd  all  about  it.  The 
baby  was  found  by  gold-diggers  up  in  the  mountains. 
Must  have  got  lost  from  a  wagon-train  thet  Indians  set 
on  soon  after — so  the  miners  said.  Anyway,  Old  Bill  took 
the  baby  an'  raised  her  as  his  own." 

"How  old  is  she  now?"  queried  Wade,  with  a  singulat 
change  in  his  tone. 

"Columbine's  around  nineteen." 

Bent  Wade  lowered  his  head  a  little,  hiding  his  features 
under  the  old,  battered,  wide-brimmed  hat.  The  amiable 
innkeeper  did  not  see  the  tremor  that  passed  over  him, 
nor  the  slight  stiffening  that  followed,  nor  the  gray  pallor  of 
his  face.  She  went  on  talking  until  some  one  called  her. 

Wade  went  outdoors,  and  with  bent  head  walked  down 
the  street,  across  a  little  river,  out  into  green  pasture-land. 
He  struggled  with  an  amazing  possibility.  Columbine 
Belllounds  might  be  his  own  daughter.  His  heart  leaped 
with  joy.  But  the  joy  was  short-lived.  No  such  hope 
in  this  world  for  Bent  Wade!  This  coincidence,  however, 
left  him  with  a  strange,  prophetic  sense  in  his  soul  of  a 
tragedy  coming  to  White  Slides  Ranch.  Wade  possessed 
some  power  of  divination,  some  strange  gift  to  pierce  the 
veil  of  the  future.  But  he  could  not  exercise  this  powe* 

66 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

at  will ;  it  came  involuntarily,  like  a  messenger  of  trouble 
in  the  dark  night.  Moreover,  he  had  never  yet  been  able 
to  draw  away  from  the  fascination  of  this  knowledge.  It 
lured  him  on.  Always  his  decision  had  been  to  go  on,  to 
meet  this  boding  circumstance,  or  to  remain  and  meet  it, 
in  the  hope  that  he  might  take  some  one's  burden  upon 
his  shoulders.  He  sensed  it  now,  in  the  keen,  poignant 
clairvoyance  of  the  moment — the  tangle  of  life  that  he 
was  about  to  enter.  Old  Bill  Belllounds,  big  and  fine, 
victim  of  love  for  a  wayward  son ;  Buster  Jack,  the  waster, 
the  tearer-down,  the  destroyer,  the  wild  youth  at  a  wild 
time;  Columbine,  the  girl  of  unknown  birth,  good  and 
loyal,  subject  to  a  condition  sure  to  ruin  her.  Wade's 
strange  mind  revolved  a  hundred  outcomes  to  this  con 
flict  of  characters,  but  not  one  of  them  was  the  one  that 
was  written.  That  remained  dark.  Never  had  he  received 
eo  strong  a  call  out  of  the  unknown,  nor  had  he  ever  felt 
such  intense  curiosity.  Hope  had  long  been  dead  in  him, 
except  the  one  that  he  might  atone  in  some  way  for  the 
wrong  he  had  done  his  wife.  So  the  pangs  of  emotion 
that  recurred,  in  spite  of  reason  and  bitterness,  were  not 
recognized  by  him  as  lingering  hopes.  Wade  denied  the 
human  in  him,  but  he  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  meeting 
Columbine  Belllounds.  There  was  something  here  beyond 
all  his  comprehension. 

"It  might — be  true!"  he  whispered.  "I'll  know  when 
I  see  her." 

Then  he  walked  back  toward  the  inn.  On  the  way  he 
looked  into  the  barroom  of  the  hotel  run  by  Smith.  It 
was  a  hard-looking  place,  half  full  of  idle  men,  whose  faces 
were  as  open  pages  to  Bent  Wade.  Curiosity  did  not 
wholly  control  the  impulse  that  made  him  wait  at  the  door 
till  he  could  have  a  look  at  the  man  Smith.  Somewhere, 
at  some  time,  Wade  had  met  most  of  the  veterans  of 

67 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

western  Colorado.  So  much  he  had  traveled!  But  the 
impulse  that  held  him  was  answered  and  explained  when 
Smith  came  in — a  burly  man,  with  an  ugly  scar  marring 
one  eye.  Bent  Wade  recognized  Smith.  He  recognized 
the  scar.  For  that  scar  was  his  own  mark,  dealt  to  this 
man,  whose  name  was  not  Smith,  and  who  had  been  as 
evil  as  he  looked,  and  whose  nomadic  life  was  not  due  to 
remorse  or  love  of  travel. 

Wade  passed  on  without  being  seen.  This  recognition 
meant  less  to  him  than  it  would  have  ten  years  ago,  as  he 
was  not  now  the  kind  of  man  who  hunted  old  enemies  for 
revenge  or  who  went  to  great  lengths  to  keep  out  of  their 
way.  Men  there  were  in  Colorado  who  would  shoot  at 
him  on  sight.  There  had  been  more  than  one  that  had 
shot  to  his  cost. 

That  night  Wade  camped  in  the  foothills  east  of  Elgeria, 
and  upon  the  following  day,  at  sunrise,  his  horses  were 
breaking  the  frosty  grass  and  ferns  of  the  timbered  range. 
This  he  crossed,  rode  down  into  a  valley  where  a  lonely 
cabin  nestled,  and  followed  an  old,  blazed  trail  that  wound 
up  the  course  of  a  brook.  The  water  was  of  a  color  that 
made  rock  and  sand  and  moss  seem  like  gold.  He  saw 
no  signs  or  tracks  of  game.  A  gray  jay  now  and  then 
screeched  his  approach  to  unseen  denizens  of  the  woods. 
The  stream  babbled  past  him  over  mossy  ledges,  under 
the  dark  shade  of  clumps  of  spruces,  and  it  grew  smaller 
as  he  progressed  toward  its  source.  At  length  it  was  lost 
in  a  swale  of  high,  rank  grass,  and  the  blazed  trail  led  on 
through  heavy  pine  woods.  At  noon  he  reached  the 
crest  of  the  divide,  and,  halting  upon  an  open,  rocky  emi 
nence,  he  gazed  down  over  a  green  and  black  forest,  slow- 
descending  to  a  great  irregular  park  that  was  his  destina 
tion  for  the  night. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Wade  needed  meat,  and  to  that  end,  as  he  went  on,  he 
kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  deer,  especially  after  he  espied 
fresh  tracks  crossing  the  trail.  Slipping  along  ahead  of 
his  horses,  that  followed  him  almost  too  closely  to  permit 
of  his  noiseless  approach  to  game,  he  hunted  all  the  way 
down  to  the  great  open  park  without  getting  a  shot. 

This  park  was  miles  across  and  miles  long,  covered  with 
tall,  waving  grass,  and  it  had  straggling  arms  that  led  off 
into  the  surrounding  belt  of  timber.  It  sloped  gently 
toward  the  center,  where  a  round,  green  acreage  of  grass 
gave  promise  of  water.  Wade  rode  toward  this,  keeping 
somewhat  to  the  right,  as  he  wanted  to  camp  at  the  edge 
of  the  woods.  Soon  he  rode  out  beyond  one  of  the  pro 
jecting  peninsulas  of  forest  to  find  the  park  spreading 
tfider  in  that  direction.  He  saw  horses  grazing  with  elk, 
and  far  down  at  the  notch,  where  evidently  the  park  had 
outlet  in  a  narrow  valley,  he  espied  the  black,  hump- 
shaped,  shaggy  forms  of  buffalo.  They  bobbed  off  out 
of  sight.  Then  the  elk  saw  or  scented  him,  and  they 
trotted  away,  the  antlered  bulls  ahead  of  the  cows.  Wade 
wondered  if  the  horses  were  wild.  They  showed  great 
interest,  but  no  fear.  Beyond  them  was  a  rising  piece  of 
ground,  covered  with  pine,  and  it  appeared  to  stand  aloft 
from  the  forest  on  the  far  side  as  well  as  upon  that  by 
which  he  was  approaching.  Riding  a  mile  or  so  farther 
he  ascertained  that  this  bit  of  wooded  ground  resembled 
an  island  in  a  lake.  Presently  he  saw  smoke  arising  above 
the  treetops. 

A  tiny  brook  welled  out  of  the  green  center  of  the  park 
and  meandered  around  to  pass  near  the  island  of  pines. 
Wade  saw  unmistakable  signs  of  prospecting  along  this 
brook,  and  farther  down,  where  he  crossed  it,  he  found 
tracks  made  that  day. 

The  elevated  plot  of  ground  appeared  to  be  several  acres 

69 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

in  extent,  covered  with  small-sized  pines,  and  at  the  far 
edge  there  was  a  little  log  cabin.  Wade  expected  to  stir- 
prise  a  lone  prospector  at  his  evening  meal.  As  he  rode 
up  a  dog  ran  out  of  the  cabin,  barking  furiously.  A  man, 
dressed  in  fringed  buckskin,  followed.  He  was  tall,  and 
had  long,  iron-gray  hair  over  his  shoulders.  His  bronzed 
and  weather-beaten  face  was  a  mass  of  fine  wrinkles  where 
the  grizzled  hair  did  not  hide  them,  and  his  shining,  red 
countenance  proclaimed  an  honest,  fearless  spirit. 

"Howdy,  stranger!"  he  called,  as  Wade  halted  several 
rods  distant.  His  greeting  was  not  welcome,  but  it  was 
civil.  His  keen  scrutiny,  however,  attested  to  more  than 
his  speech. 

"Evenin',  friend,"  replied  Wade.  "Might  I  throw  my 
pack  here?" 

"Sure.  Get  down,"  answered  the  other.  " I  calkilate  I 
never  seen  you  in  these  diggin's." 

"No.  I'm  Bent  Wade,  an*  on  my  way  to  White  Slides 
to  work  for  Belllounds." 

"Glad  to  meet  you.  I'm  new  hereabouts,  myself,  but 
I  know  Belllounds.  My  name's  Lewis.  I  was  jest  cookin' 
grub.  An'  it  11  burn,  too,  if  I  don't  rustle.  Turn  your 
bosses  loose  an'  come  in." 

Wade  presented  himself  with  something  more  than  his 
usual  methodical  action.  He  smelled  buffalo  steak,  and 
he  was  hungry.  The  cabin  had  been  built  years  ago,  and 
was  a  ramshackle  shelter  at  best.  The  stone  fireplace, 
however,  appeared  well  preserved.  A  bed  of  red  coals 
glowed  >ind  cracked  upon  the  hearth. 

"Reckon  I  sure  smelled  buffalo  meat,"  observed  Wade, 
with  much  satisfaction.  "  It's  long  since  I  chewed  a  hunk 
of  that." 

"All  ready.  Now  pitch  in.  ...  Yes,  thar's  some  buffalo 
left  in  here.  Not  hunted  much.  Thar's  lots  of  elk  an' 

70 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

herds  of  deer.  After  a  little  snow  you'd  think  a  drove  of 
sheep  had  been  trackin'  around.  An'  some  bear." 

Wade  did  not  waste  many  words  until  he  had  enjoyed 
that  meal.  Later,  while  he  helped  his  host,  he  recurred 
to  >  he  subject  of  game. 

"If  there's  so  many  deer  then  there's  lions  an*  wolves." 

"You  bet.  I  see  tracks  every  day.  Had  a  shot  at  a 
lofer  not  long  ago.  Missed  him.  But  I  reckon  thar's  more 
varmints  over  in  the  Troublesome  country  back  of  White 
Slides." 

"Troublesome!  Do  they  call  it  that?"  asked  Wade, 
with  a  queer  smile. 

"Sure.  An'  it  is  troublesome.  Belllounds  has  been 
tryin'  to  hire  a  hunter.  Offered  me  big  wages  to  kill  off 
the  wolves  an'  lions." 

"That's  the  job  I'm  goin'  to  take." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Lewis.  "I'm  sure  glad.  Bell< 
lounds  is  a  nice  fellar.  I  felt  sort  of  cheap  till  I  told  him 
I  wasn't  really  a  hunter.  You  see,  I'm  prospectin*  up 
here,  an'  pretendin'  to  be  a  hunter." 

"What  do  you  make  that  bluff  for?"  queried  Wade? 
"You  couldn't  fool  any  one  who'd  ever  prospected  for 
gold.  I  saw  your  signs  out  here." 

"Wai,  you've  sharp  eyes,  thet's  all.  Wade,  I've  some 
ondesirable  neighbors  over  here.  I'd  just  as  lief  they 
didn't  see  me  diggin'  gold.  Lately  I've  had  a  hunch 
they're  rustlin'  cattle.  Anyways,  they've  sold  cattle  in 
Kremmlin*  thet  came  from  over  around  Elgeria." 

"Wherever  there's  cattle  there's  sure  to  be  some 
stealin',"  observed  Wade. 

"Wai,  you  needn't  say  anythin'  to  Belllounds,  because 
mebbe  I'm  wrong.  An'  if  I  found  out  I  was  right  I'd  go 
down  to  White  Slides  an'  tell  it  myself.  Belllounds  done 
ine  some  favors." 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"How  far  to  White  Slides?"  asked  Wade,  with  a  poff 
on  his  pipe. 

"Roundabout  trail,  an*  rough,  but  you'll  make  it  in 
'one  day,  easy.  Beautiful  country.  Open,  big  ^/eaks  an' 
ranges,  with  valleys  an'  lakes.  Never  seen  such  grass!" 

"  Did  you  ever  see  Belllounds's  son? " 

"  No.  Didn't  know  he  hed  one.  But  I  seen  his  gal  the 
fust  day  I  was  thar.  She  was  nice  to  me.  I  went  thar 
to  be  fixed  up  a  bit.  Nearly  chopped  my  hand  off.  The 
gal — Columbine,  she's  called — doctored  me  up.  Fact  is, 
I  owe  considerable  to  thet  White  Slides  Ranch.  There's 
a  cowboy,  Wiis  something  who  rode  up  here  with  some 
medicine  fer  me — some  they  didn't  have  when  I  was  thar. 
You'll  like  thet  boy.  I  seen  he  was  sweet  on  the  gal  an' 
I  sure  couldn't  blame  him." 

Bent  Wade  removed  his  pipe  and  let  out  a  strange 
^augh,  significant  with  its  little  note  of  grim  confirmation. 

"What's  funny  about  thet?"  demanded  Lewis,  rather 
surprised. 

" I  was  only  laughin',"  replied  Wade.  "What  you  said 
about  the  cowboy  bein'  sweet  on  the  girl  popped  into  my 
head  before  you  told  it.  Well,  boys  will  be  boys.  I  was 
young  once  an'  had  my  day." 

Lewis  grunted  as  he  bent  over  to  lift  a  red  coal  to  light 
his  pipe,  and  as  he  raised  his  head  he  gave  Wade  a  glance 
of  sympathetic  curiosity. 

"Wai,  I  hope  I'll  see  more  of  you,"  he  said,  as  his  guest 
rose,  evidently  to  go. 

"Reckon  you  will,  as  I'll  be  chasin'  hounds  all  over. 
An'  I  want  a  look  at  them  neighbors  you  spoke  of  that 
might  be  rustlers. ...  I'll  turn  in  now.  Good  night." 


CHAPTER  V 

BENT  WADE  rode  out  of  the  forest  to  look  down 
upon  the  White  Slides  country  at  the  hour  when  it 
was  most  beautiful. 

"Never  seen  the  beat  of  that!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
halted. 

The  hour  was  sunset,  with  the  golden  rays  and  shadows 
streaking  ahead  of  him  down  the  rolling  sage  hills,  all 
rosy  and  gray  with  rich,  strange  softness.  Groves  of 
aspens  stood  isolated  from  one  another — here  crowning 
a  hill  with  blazing  yellow,  and  there  fringing  the  brow  of 
another  with  gleaming  gold,  and  lower  down  reflecting 
the  sunlight  wi  h  brilliant  red  and  purple.  The  valley 
seemed  fillec1  with  a  delicate  haze,  almost  like  smoke. 
White  Slides  Ranch  was  hidden  from  sight,  as  it  lay  in  the 
bottomland.  The  gray  old  peak  towered  proud  and  aloof, 
clear-cut  and  sunset-flushed  against  the  blue.  The  eastern 
slope  of  the  valley  was  a  vast  sweep  of  sage  and  hill  and 
grassy  bench  and  aspen  bench,  on  fire  with  the  colors  of 
autumn  made  molten  by  the  last  flashing  of  the  sun. 
Great  black  slopes  of  forest  gave  sharp  contrast,  and  led 
up  to  the  red-walled  ramparts  of  the  mountain  range. 

Wade  watched  the  scene  until  the  fire  faded,  the  golden 
shafts  paled  and  died,  the  rosy  glow  on  sage  changed  to 
cold  steel  gray.  Then  he  rode  out  upon  the  foothills.  The 
trail  led  up  and  down  slopes  of  sage.  Grass  grew  thicket 
as  he  dascended.  Once  he  startled  a  great  flock  of  prairie- 
chickens,  or  sage-hens,  large  gray  birds,  lumbering,  swift 

<*  73 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

fliers,  that  whirred  up,  and  soon  plumped  down  again  into 
the  sage.  Twilight  found  him  on  a  last  long  slope  of  the 
foothills,  facing  the  pasture-land  of  the  valley,  with  the 
ranch  still  five  miles  distant,  now  showing  misty  and  dim 
in  the  gathering  shadows. 

Wade  made  camp  where  a  brook  ran  near  an  aspen 
thicket.  He  had  no  desire  to  hurry  to  meet  events  at 
White  Slides  Ranch,  although  he  longed  to  see  this  girl 
that  belonged  to  Belllounds.  Night  settled  down  over  the 
quiet  foothills.  A  pack  of  roving  coyotes  visited  Wade, 
and  sat  in  a  half-circle  in  the  shadows  back  of  the  camp- 
fire.  They  howled  and  barked.  Nevertheless  sleep  visited 
Wade's  tired  eyelids  the  moment  he  lay  down  and  closed 
them. 

Next  morning,  rather  late,  Wade  rode  down  to  White 
Slides  Ranch.  It  looked  to  him  like  the  property  of  a 
rich  rancher  who  held  to  the  old  and  proven  customs  of 
his  generation.  The  corrals  were  new,  but  their  style  was 
old.  Wade  reflected  that  it  would  be  hard  for  rustlers  or 
horse-thieves  to  steal  out  of  those  corrals.  A  long  lane  led 
from  the  pasture-land,  following  the  brook  that  ran  through 
the  corrals  and  by  the  back  door  of  the  rambling,  comfort 
able-looking  cabin.  A  cowboy  was  leading  horses  across 
a  wide  square  between  the  main  ranch-house  and  a  cluster 
of  cabins  and  sheds.  He  saw  the  visitor  and  waited. 

"Mornin',"  said  Wade,  as  he  rode  up. 

"Hod  do,"  replied  the  cowboy. 

Then  these  two  eyed  each  other,  not  curiously  nor  sus 
piciously,  but  with  that  steady,  measuring  gaze  common 
to  Western  men. 

"My  name's  Wade,"  said  the  traveler.  "Come  from 
Meeker  way.  I'm  lookin'  for  a  job  with  Belllounds." 

"I'm  Lem  Billings,"  replied  the  other.  "Ridin'  fer 

74 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

White  Slides  fer  years.    Reckon  the  boss  11  be  glad  to 
take  you  on." 

"Is  he  around?" 

"Sure.  I  jest  seen  him,"  replied  Billings,  as  he  haltered 
his  horses  to  a  post.  "I  reckon  I  ought  to  give  you  a 
hunch." 

"I'd  take  that  as  a  favor." 

"Wai,  we're  short  of  hands,"  said  the  cowboy.  "Jest 
got  the  round-up  over.  Hudson  was  hurt  an*  Wils 
Moore  got  crippled.  Then  the  boss's  son  has  been  put 
on  as  foreman.  Three  of  the  boys  quit.  Couldn't  stand 
him.  This  hyar  son  of  Belllounds  is  a  son-of-a-gun !  Me 
an*  pards  of  mine,  Montana  an'  Bludsoe,  are  stickin'  on — 
wal,  fer  reasons  thet  ain't  egzactly  love  fer  the  boss.  But 
Old  Bill's  the  best  of  bosses. . . .  Now  the  hunch  is — thet  if 
you  git  on  hyar  you'll  hev  to  do  two  or  three  men's  work." 

"  Much  obliged,"  replied  Wade.     "  I  don't  shy  at  that."' 

"Wal,  git  down  an'  come  in,"  added  Billings,  heartily. 

He  led  the  way  across  the  square,  around  the  corner  of 
the  ranch-house,  and  up  on  a  long  porch,  where  the  ar 
rangement  of  chairs  and  blankets  attested  to  the  hand  of 
a  woman.  The  first  door  was  open,  and  from  it  issued 
voices;  first  a  shrill,  petulant  boy's  complaint,  and  then 
a  man's  deep,  slow,  patient  reply. 

Lem  Billings  knocked  on  the  door-jamb. 

"Wal,  what's  wanted?"  called  Belllounds. 

"Boss,  thar's  a  man  wantin'  to  see  you,"  replied  Lem. 

Heavy  steps  approached  the  doorway  and  it  was  filled 
with  the  large  figure  of  the  rancher.  Wade  remembered 
Belllounds  and  saw  only  a  gray  difference  in  years. 

"Good  mornin',  Lem,  an'  good  moi  iin'  to  youp 
stranger,"  was  the  rancher's  greeting,  his  bold,  blue  glance, 
honest  and  frank  and  keen,  with  all  his  long  experience  of 
men,  taking  Wade  in  with  one  flash. 

75 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Lem  discreetly  walked  to  the  end  of  the  porch  as 
another  figure,  that  of  the  son  who  resembled  the  father, 
filled  the  doorway  with  eyes  less  kind,  bent  upon  the 
visitor. 

"  My  name's  Wade.  I'm  over  from  Meeker  way,  hopin' 
to  find  a  job  with  you,"  said  Wade. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,"  replied  Belllounds,  extending  his 
huge  hand  to  shake  Wade's.  "I  need  you,  sure  bad. 
What's  your  special  brand  of  work?" 

"I  reckon  any  kind." 

"Set  down,  stranger,"  replied  Belllounds,  pulling  up  a 
chair.  He  seated  himself  on  a  bench  and  leaned  against 
the  log  wall.  "  Now,  when  a  boy  comes  an'  says  he  can 
do  anythin',  why  I  jest  haw!  haw!  at  him.  But  you're  a 
man,  Wade,  an'  one  as  has  been  there.  Now  I'm  hard 
put  fer  hands.  Jest  speak  out  now  fer  yourself.  No  one 
else  can  speak  fer  you,  thet's  sure.  An'  this  is  bizness."  < 

"Any  work  with  stock,  from  punchin'  steers  to  doctorin* 
horses,"  replied  Wade,  quietly.  "Am  fair  carpenter  an* 
mason.  Good  packer.  Know  farmin'.  Can  milk  cows 
an'  make  butter.  I've  been  cook  in  many  outfits.  Read 
an*  write  an'  not  bad  at  figures.  Can  do  work  on  saddles 
an'  harness,  an — " 

"  Hold  on !"  yelled  Belllounds,  with  a  hearty  laugh.  "  I 
ain't  imposin'  on  no  man,  no  matter  how  I  need  help. 
You're  sure  a  jack  of  all  range  trades.  An'  I  wish  you  was 
a  hunter." 

"  I  was  comin'  to  that.     You  didn't  give  me  time." 

"Say,  do  you  know  hounds?"  queried  Belllounds, 
eagerly. 

"Yes.  Was  raised  where  everybody  had  packs.  I'm 
from  Kentucky.  An'  I've  run  hounds  off  an'  on  for  years. 
I'll  tell  you—" 

Belllounds  interrupted  Wade. 

76 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"By  all  that's  lucky!  An'  last,  can  you  handle  guns? 
We  'ain't  had  a  good  shot  on  this  range  fer  Lord  knows  how 
long.  I  used  to  hit  plumb  center  with  a  rifle.  My  eyes 
are  pore  now.  An'  my  son  can't  hit  a  flock  of  haystacks. 
An'  the  cowpunchers  are  'most  as  bad.  Sometimes  right 
hyar  where  you  could  hit  elk  with  a  club  we're  out  of 
fresh  meat." 

"Yes,  I  can  handle  guns,"  replied  Wade,  with  a  quiet 
smile  and  a  lowering  of  his  head.  "Reckon  you  didn't 
catch  my  name." 

"Wai — no,  I  didn't,"  slowly  replied  Belllounds,  and  his 
pause,  with  the  keener  look  he  bestowed  upon  Wade,  told 
how  the  latter's  query  had  struck  home. 

"Wade— Bent  Wade,"  said  Wade,  with  quiet  distinct 
ness. 

"Nat  Hell-Bent  Wade!"  ejaculated  Belllounds. 

"  The  same. ...  I  ain't  proud  of  the  handle,  but  I  never 
sail  under  false  colors." 

"Wai,  I'll  be  damned ! "  went  on  the  rancher.  " Wade,! 
I've  heerd  of  you  fer  years.  Some  bad,  but  most  good, 
an'  I  reckon  I'm  jest  as  glad  to  meet  you  as  if  you'd  been 
somebody  else." 

"You'll  give  me  the  job?" 

"I  should  smile." 

"  I'm  thankin'  you.  Reckon  I  was  some  worried.  Jobs 
are  hard  for  me  to  get  an'  harder  to  keep." 

"Thet's  not  onnatural,  considerin'  the  hell  which 's 
said  to  camp  on  your  trail,"  replied  Belllounds,  dryly. 
"Wade,  I  can't  say  I  take  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  stock  in  such 
talk.  Fifty  years  I've  been  west  of  the  Missouri.  I  know 
the  West  an'  I  know  men.  Talk  flies  from  camp  to  ranch, 
from  diggin's  to  town,  an'  always  some  one  adds  a  little 
more.  Now  I  trust  my  judgment  an'  I  trust  men.  No 
one  ever  betrayed  me  yet." 

77 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"I'm  that  way,  too,"  replied  Wade.  "But  it  doesn't 
pay,  an'  yet  I  still  kept  on  bein'  that  way.  .  .  .  Belllounds, 
my  name's  as  bad  as  good  all  over  western  Colorado. 
But  as  man  to  man  I  tell  you — I  never  did  a  low-down 
trick  in  my  life.  .  . .  Never  but  once." 

"An'  what  was  thet?"  queried  the  rancher,  gruffly. 

"I  killed  a  man  who  was  innocent,"  replied  Wade,  with 
quivering  lips,  "an' — an'  drove  the  woman  I  loved  to  her 
death." 

"Aw!  we  all  make  mistakes  some  time  in  our  lives,"  said 
Belllounds,  hurriedly.  "I  made  'most  as  big  a  one  as 
yours — so  help  me  God! ..." 

"I'll  tell  you—"  interrupted  Wade. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  anythin',"  said  Belllounds,  inter 
rupting  in  his  turn.  "But  at  thet  some  time  I'd  like  to 
hear  about  the  Lascelles  outfit  over  on  the  Gunnison.  I 
knowed  Lascelles.  An'  a  pardner  of  mine  down  in  Middle 
Park  came  back  from  the  Gunnison  with  the  dog-gondest 
story  I  ever  heerd.  Thet  was  five  years  ago  this  summer. 
Of  course  I  knowed  your  name  long  before,  but  this  time 
I  heerd  it  powerful  strong.  You  got  in  thet  mix-up  to 
your  neck.  .  .  .  Wai,  what  consarns  me  now  is  this.  Is 
there  any  sense  in  the  talk  thet  wherever  you  land  there's 
hell  to  pay?" 

"Belllounds,  there's  no  sense  in  it,  but  a  lot  of  truth," 
confessed  Wade,  gloomily. 

"Ahuh!  .  .  .  Wai,  Hell-Bent  Wade,  I'll  take  a  chance 
on  you,"  boomed  the  rancher's  deep  voice>  rich  with  the 
intent  of  his  big  heart.  "  I've  gambled  all  my  life.  An* 
the  best  friends  I  ever  made  were  men  I'd  helped.  .  .  . 
What  wages  do  you  ask?" 

"I'll  take  what  you  offer." 

"I'm  payin'  the  boys  forty  a  month,  but  thet's  not 
enough  fer  you." 

78 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Yes,  that  '11  do." 

"  Good,  it's  settled,"  concluded  Belllounds,  rising.  Then 
he  saw  his  son  standing  inside  the  door.  "Say,  Jack, 
shake  hands  with  Bent  Wade,  hunter  an'  all-around  man. 
Wade,  this  's  my  boy.  I've  jest  put  him  on  as  foreman 
of  the  outfit,  an'  while  I'm  at  it  I'll  say  thet  you'll  take 
orders  from  me  an'  not  from  him." 

Wade  looked  up  into  the  face  of  Jack  Belllounds,  re 
turned  his  brief  greeting,  and  shook  his  limp  hand.  The 
contact  sent  a  strange  chill  over  Wade.  Young  Bell- 
lounds's  face  was  marred  by  a  bruise  and  shaded  by  a 
sullen  light. 

"Get  Billin's  to  take  you  out  to  thet  new  cabin  an' 
sheds  I  jest  had  put  up,"  said  the  rancher.  "  You'll  bunk 
in  the  cabin.  .  .  .  Aw,  I  know.  Men  like  you  sleep  in  the 
open.  But  you  can't  do  thet  under  Old  White  Slides  in 
winter.  Not  much!  Make  yourself  to  home,  an'  I'll 
walk  out  after  a  bit  an'  we'll  look  over  the  dog  outfit. 
When  you  see  thet  outfit  you'll  holler  fer  help." 

Wade  bowed  his  thanks,  and,  putting  on  his  sombrero, 
he  turned  away.  As  he  did  so  he  caught  a  sound  of  light, 
quick  footsteps  on  the  far  end  of  the  porch. 

"Hello,  you-all!"  cried  a  girl's  voice,  with  melody  in  it 
that  vibrated  piercingly  upon  Wade's  sensitive  ears. 

"Mornin',  Columbine,"  replied  the  rancher. 

Bent  Wade's  heart  leaped  up.  This  girlish  voice  rang 
upon  the  chord  of  memory.  Wade  had  not  the  strength 
to  look  at  her  then.  It  was  not  that  he  could  not  bear 
to  look,  but  that  he  could  not  bear  the  disillusion  sure  to 
follow  his  first  glimpse  of  this  adopted  daughter  of  Bell 
lounds.  Sweet  to  delude  himself!  Ah!  the  years  were 
bearing  sterner  upon  his  head !  The  old  dreams  persisted, 
sadder  now  for  the  fact  that  from  long  use  they  had  be 
come  half -realities !  Wade  shuffled  slowly  across  the  green 

79 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

square  to  where  the  cowboy  waited  for  him.    His  eyes 
were  dim,  and  a  sickness  attended  the  sinking  of  his  heart. 

"  Wade,  I  ain't  a  bettin'  fellar,  but  I'll  bet  Old  Bill  took 
you  up,"  vouchsafed  Billings,  with  interest. 

"  Glad  to  say  he  did,"  replied  Wade.  "  You're  to  show 
me  the  new  cabin  where  I'm  to  bunk." 

"  Come  along,"  said  Lem,  leading  oft  "  Air  you  agoin' 
to  handle  stock  or  chase  coyotes?" 

"My  job's  huntin'." 

"Wai,  it  may  be  thet  from  sunup  to  sundown,  but  be- 
tweentimes  you'll  be  sure  busy  otherwise,  I  opine,"  went 
on  Lem.  "  Did  you  meet  the  boss's  son  ? " 

"Yes,  he  was  there.  An'  Belllounds  made  it  plain  I 
was  to  take  orders  from  him  an'  not  from  his  son." 

"Thet  '11  make  your  job  a  million  times  easier,"  de 
clared  Lem,  as  if  to  make  up  for  former  hasty  pessimism. 
He  led  the  way  past  some  log  cabins,  and  sheds  with  dirt 
roofs,  and  low,  flac-topped  barns,  out  across  another  brook 
where  willow-trees  were  turning  yellow.  Then  the  new 
cabin  came  into  view.  It  was  smal!.  with  one  door  and 
one  window,  and  a  porch  across  the  front.  It  stood  on 
a  small  elevation,  near  the  swift  brook,  and  overlooking 
the  ranch-house  perhaos  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below.  Above 
it,  and  across  the  brook,  had  been  built  a  high  fence  con 
structed  of  aspen  poles  laced  closely  together.  The 
sounds  therefrom  proclaimed  this  stockade  to  be  the  dog- 
pen. 

Lem  helped  Wade  unpack  and  carry  his  outfit  into  the 
cabin.  It  contained  one  room,  the  corner  of  which  was 
filled  with  blocks  and  slabs  of  pine,  evidently  left  there 
after  the  construction  of  the  cabin,  and  meant  for  fire 
wood.  The  ample  size  of  the  stone  fireplace  attested  to 
the  severity  of  the  winters. 

"Real  sawed  boards  on  the  floor!"  exclaimed  Lem; 

80 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

meaning  to  impress  the  new-comer.  "  I  call  this  a  plumb 
good  bunk." 

"  Much  too  good  for  me,    replied  Wade. 

"Wai,  I'll  look  after  your  bosses,"  said  Lem.  "I 
reckon  you'll  fix  up  your  bunk.  Take  my  hunch  an'  ask 
Miss  Collie  to  find  you  some  furniture  an'  sich  like.  She's 
Ole  Bill's  daughter,  an'  she  makes  up  fer — fer — wal,  fer  a 
lot  we  hev  to  stand.  I'll  fetch  the  boys  over  later. ' ' 

"Do  you  smoke?"  asked  Wade.  "I've  somethin'  fine 
I  fetched  up  from  Leadville." 

"Smoke!  Me?  I'll  give  you  a  hoss  right  now  for  a 
cigar.  I  git  one  onct  a  year,  mebbe." 

"  Here's  a  box  I've  been  packin*  for  long,"  replied  Wade, 
as  he  handed  it  up  to  Billings.  "They're  Spanish,  all 
right.  Too  rich  for  my  blood!" 

A  box  of  gold  could  not  have  made  that  cowboy's  eyes 
shine  any  brighter. 

"Whoop-ee!"  he  yelled.  "Why,  man,  you're  like  the 
fairy  in  the  kid's  story!  Won't  I  make  the  outfit  wild? 
Aw,  I  forgot.  Thar's  only  Jim  an'  Blud  left.  Wal,  I'll 
diwy  with  them.  Sure,  Wade,  you  hit  me  right.  I  was 
dyin'  fer  a  real  smoke.  An'  I  reckon  what's  mine  is 
yours." 

Then  he  strode  out  of  the  cabin,  whistling  a  merry  cow- 
•  boy  tune. 

Wade  was  left  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  room  on  his 
roll  of  bedding,  and  for  a  long  time  he  remained  there 
motionless,  with  his  head  bent,  his  worn  hands  idly  clasped. 
A  heavy  footfall  outside  aroused  him  from  his  meditation. 

"Hey,  Wade!"  called  the  cheery  voice  of  Belllounds. 
'•  Then  the  rancher  appeared  at  the  door.  "  How's  this 
bunk  suit  you?" 

"  Much  too  fine  for  an  old-timer  like  me,"  replied  Wade. 

"Old-timer!  Say,  you're  young  yet.  Look  at  me. 

81 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Sixty-eight  last  birthday!  Wai,  every  dog  has  his  day. 
.  .  .  What  're  you  needin'  to  fix  this  bunk  comfortable 
like?" 

"Reckon  I  don't  need  much." 

"Wai,  you've  beddin'  an'  cook  outfit.  Go  get  a  table, 
an'  a  chair  an'  a  bench  from  thet  first  cabin.  The  boys 
thet  had  it  are  gone.  Somethin'  with  a  back  to  it,  a 
rockin'-chair,  if  there's  one.  You'll  find  tools,  an'  boxes, 
an'  stuff  in  the  workshop,  if  you  want  to  make  a  cupboard 
or  anythin'." 

"How  about  a  lookin'-glass?"  asked  Wade.  "I  had  a 
piece,  but  I  broke  it." 

"Haw!  Haw!  Mebbe  we  can  rustle  thet,  too.  My 
girl's  good  on  helpin'  the  boys  fix  up.  Woman-like,  you 
know.  An'  she'll  fetch  you  some  decorations  on  her  own 
hook.  Now  let's  take  a  look  at  the  hounds." 

Belllounds  led  the  way  out  toward  the  crude  dog-corral, 
and  the  way  he  leaped  the  brook  bore  witness  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  still  vigorous  and  spry.  The  door  of  the  pen 
was  made  of  boards  hung  on  wire.  As  Belllounds  opened 
it  there  came  a  pattering  rush  of  many  padded  feet,  and 
a  chorus  of  barks  and  whines.  Wade's  surprised  gaze  took 
in  forty  or  fifty  dogs,  mostly  hounds,  browns  and  blacks 
and  yellows,  all  sizes — a  motley,  mangy,  hungry  pack; 
if  he  had  ever  seen  one. 

"I  swore  I'd  buy  every  hound  fetched  to  me,  till  I'd 
cleaned  up  the  varmints  around  White  Slides.  An*  sure 
I  was  imposed  on,"  explained  the  rancher. 

"  Some  good-lookin'  hounds  in  the  bunch,"  replied  Wade. 
"An'  there's  hardly  too  many.  I'll  train  two  packs,  so  I 
can  rest  one  when  the  other's  huntin'." 

"Wai,  I'll  be  dog-goned!"  ejaculated  Belllounds,  with 
relief.  "I  sure  thought  you'd  roar.  All  this  rabble  to 
take  care  of!" 

82 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"No  trouble  after  I've  got  acquainted,"  said  Wade. 
"Have  they  been  hunted  any?'1 

"Some  of  the  boys  took  out  a  bunch.  But  they  split 
on  deer  tracks  an'  elk  tracks  an'  Lord  knows  what  all. 
Never  put  up  a  lion !  Then  again  Billings  took  some  out 
after  a  pack  of  coyotes,  an'  gol  darn  me  if  the  coyotes 
didn't  lick  the  hounds.  An'  wuss!  Jack,  my  son,  got 
it  into  his  head  thet  he  was  a  hunter.  The  other  mornin' 
he  found  a  fresh  lion  track  back  of  the  corral.  An'  he 
ups  an'  puts  the  whole  pack  of  hounds  on  the  trail.  I  had 
a  good  many  more  hounds  in  the  pack  than  you  see  now. 
Wai,  anyway,  it  was  great  to  hear  the  noise  thet  pack 
made.  Jack  lost  every  blamed  hound  of  them.  Thet 
night  an'  next  day  an'  the  followin'  they  straggled  in. 
But  twenty  some  never  did  come  back." 

l?ode  laughed.  "They  may  come  yet.  I  reckon, 
though,  they've  gone  home  where  they  came  from.  Are 
any  of  these  hounds  recommended?" 

"Every  consarned  one  of  them,"  declared  Belllounds. 

"  That's  funny.  But  I  guess  it's  natural.  Do  you  know 
for  sure  whether  you  bought  any  good  dogs?" 

"Yes,  I  gave  fifty  dollars  for  two  hounds.  Got  them 
of  a  friend  in  Middle  Park  whose  pack  killed  off  the  lions 
there.  They're  good  dogs,  trained  on  lion,  wolf,  an'  bear." 

"Pick  'em  out,"  said  Wade. 

With  a  throng  of  canines  crowding  and  fawning  round 
him,  and  snapping  at  one  another,  it  was  difficult  for  the 
rancher  to  draw  the  two  particular  ones  apart  so  they 
could  be  looked  over.  At  length  he  succeeded,  and  Wade 
drove  back  the  rest  of  the  pack. 

"The  big  fellar's  Sampson  an'  the  other's  Jim,"  said 
Belllounds. 

Sampson  was  a  huge  hound,  gray  and  yellow,  with 
mottled  black  marks,  very  long  ears,  and  big,  solemn  eyes. 

S3 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Jim,  a  good-sized  dog,  but  small  in  comparison  with  the 
other,  was  black  all  over,  except  around  the  nose  and  eyes. 
Jim  had  many  scars.  He  was  old,  yet  not  past  a  vigorous 
age,  and  he  seemed  a  quiet,  dignified,  wise  hound,  quite 
out  of  his  element  in  that  mongrel  pack. 

"If  they're  as  good  as  they  look  we're  lucky,"  said 
Wade,  as  he  tied  the  ends  of  his  rope  round  their  necks. 
"Now  are  there  any  more  you  know  are  good?" 

"Denver,  come  hyar!"  yelled  Belllounds.  A  white, 
yellow-spotted  hound  came  wagging  his  tail.  "I'll  swear 
by  Denver.  An'  there's  one  more — Kane.  He's  half 
bloodhound,  a  queer,  wicked  kind  of  dog.  He  keeps  to 
himself.  .  .  .  Kane!  Come  hyar!" 

Belllounds  tramped  around  the  corral,  and  finally  found 
the  hound  in  question,  asleep  in  a  dusty  hole.  Kane  was 
the  only  beautiful  dog  in  the  lot.  If  half  of  him  was 
bloodhound  the  other  half  was  shepherd,  for  his  black 
and  brown  hair  was  inclined  to  curl,  and  his  head  had  the 
fine  thoroughbred  contour  of  the  shepherd.  His  ears, 
long  and  drooping  and  thin,  betrayed  the  hound  in  him. 
Kane  showed  no  disposition  to  be  friendly.  His  dark 
eyes,  sad  and  mournful,  burned  with  the  fires  of  doubt. 

Wade  haltered  Kane,  Jim,  and  Sampson,  which  act  al 
most  precipitated  a  fight,  and  led  them  out  of  the  corral. 
Denver,  friendly  and  glad,  followed  at  the  rancher's  heels. 

"I'll  keep  them  with  me  an*  make  lead  dogs  out  of 
them,"  said  Wade.  "Belllounds,  that  bunch  hasn't  had 
enough  to  eat.  They're  half  starved." 

"Wai,  thet's  worried  me  more'n  you'll  guess,"  declared 
Belllor.tids,  with  irritation.  "What  do  a  lot  of  cow- 
punchin'  fellars  know  about  dogs?  Why,  they  nearly  ate 
Bludsoe  up.  He  wouldn't  feed  'em.  An'  Wils,  who 
seemed  good  with  dogs,  was  taken  off  bad  hurt  the  other 
day.  Lena's  been  tryin'  to  rustle  feed  fer  them.  Now 

84 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

we'll  give  back  the  dogs  you  don't  want  to  keep,  an*  thet 
way  thin  out  the  pack." 

"  Yes,  we  won't  need  'em  all.  An'  I  reckon  I'll  take  the 
worry  of  this  dog-pack  off  your  mind." 

"Thet's  your  job,  Wade.  My  orders  are  fer  you  to  kill 
off  the  varmints.  Lions,  wolves,  coyotes.  An'  every  fall 
some  ole  silvertip  gits  bad,  an'  now  an'  then  other  bears. 
Whatever  you  need  in  the  way  of  supplies  jest  ask  fer. 
We  send  regular  to  Kremmlin'.  You  can  hunt  fer  two 
months  yet,  barrin'  an  onusual  early  winter. ...  I'm  askin' 
you — if  my  son  tramps  on  your  toes — I'd  take  it  as  a 
favor  fer  you  to  be  patient.  He's  only  a  boy  yet,  an* 
coltish." 

Wade  divined  that  was  a  favor  difficult  for  Belllounda 
to  ask.  The  old  rancher,  dominant  and  forceful  and  self-' 
sufficient  all  his  days,  had  begun  to  feel  an  encroachment 
of  opposition  beyond  his  control.  If  he  but  realized  it, 
the  favor  he  asked  of  Wade  was  an  appeal. 

"Belllounds.  I  get  along  with  everybody,"  Wade  as 
sured  him.  "An'  maybe  I  can  help  your  son.  Before  I'd 
reached  here  I'd  heard  he  was  wild,  an'  so  I'm  prepared." 

"If  you'd  do  thet — wal,  I'd  never  forgit  it,"  replied  the 
rancher,  slowly.  "Jack's  been  away  fer  three  years. 
Only  got  back  a  week  or  so  ago.  I  calkilated  he'd  be  so 
bered,  steadied,  by — thet — thet  work  I  put  him  to.  But 
I'm  not  sure.  He's  changed.  When  he  gits  his  own  way 
he's  all  I  could  ask.  But  thet  way  he  wants  ain't  always 
what  it  ought  to  be.  An'  so  thar's  been  clashes.  But 
Jack's  a  fine  young  man.  An'  he'll  outgrow  his  temper 
an'  crazy  notions.  Work  '11  do  it." 

"Boys  will  be  boys,"  replied  Wade,  philosophically. 
"I've  not  forgotten  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"Neither  hev  I.  Wal,  I'll  be  goin',  Wade.  I  reckon 
Columbine  will  be  up  to  call  on  you.  Bein'  the  only 

8s 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

woman-folk  in  my  house,  she  sort  of  runs  it.  An*  she's 
sure  interested  in  thet  pack  of  hounds." 

Belllounds  trudged  away,  his  fine  old  head  erect,  his 
gray  hair  shining  in  the  sun. 

Wade  sat  down  upon  the  step  of  his  cabin,  pondering 
over  the  rancher's  remarks  about  his  son.  Recalling  the 
young  man's  physiognomy,  Wade  began  to  feel  that  it  was 
familiar  to  him.  He  had  seen  Jack  Belllounds  before. 
Wade  never  made  mistakes  in  faces,  though  he  often  had 
a  task  to  recall  names.  And  he  began  to  go  over  the 
recent  past,  recalling  all  that  he  could  remember  of 
Meeker,  and  Cripple  Creek,  where  he  had  worked  for 
several  months,  and  so  on,  until  he  had  gone  back  as  far 
as  his  last  trip  to  Denver. 

"Must  have  been  there,"  mused  Wade,  thoughtfully, 
and  he  tried  to  recall  all  the  faces  he  had  seen.  This  was 
impossible,  of  course,  yet  he  remembered  many.  Then 
he  visualized  the  places  in  Denver  that  for  one  reason  or 
another  had  struck  him  particularly.  Suddenly  into  one 
of  these  flashed  the  pale,  sullen,  bold  face  of  Jack  Bell 
lounds. 

"It  was  there!"  he  exclaimed,  incredulously.  "Well! 
...  If  thet's  not  the  strangest  yet!  Could  I  be  mistaken? 
No.  I  saw  him.  .  .  .  Belllounds  must  have  known  it — 
must  have  let  him  stay  there.  .  .  .  Maybe  put  him  there! 
He's  just  the  kind  of  a  man  to  go  to  extremes  to  reform 
his  son." 

Singular  as  was  this  circumstance,  Wade  dwelt  only 
momentarily  on  it.  He  dismissed  it  with  the  conviction 
that  it  was  another  strange  happening  in  the  string  of 
events  that  had  turned  his  steps  toward  White  Slides 
Ranch.  Wade's  mind  stirred  to  the  probability  of  an 
early  sight  of  Columbine  Belllounds.  He  would  welcome 
it,  both  as  interesting  and  pleasurable,  and  surely  as  a 

86 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

relief.  The  sooner  a  meeting  with  her  was  over  the 
better.  His  life  had  been  one  long  succession  of  shocks, 
so  that  it  seemed  nothing  the  future  held  could  thrill  him, 
amaze  him,  torment  him.  And  yet  how  well  he  knew 
that  his  heart  was  only  the  more  responsive  for  all  it  had 
withstood !  Perhaps  here  at  White  Slides  he  might  meet 
with  an  experience  dwarfing  all  others.  It  was  possible; 
it  was  in  the  nature  of  events.  And  though  he  repudiated 
such  a  possibility,  he  fortified  himself  against  a  subtle 
divination  that  he  might  at  last  have  reached  the  end  of 
his  long  trail,  where  anything  might  happen. 

Three  of  the  hounds  lay  down  at  Wade's  feet.  Kane, 
the  bloodhound,  stood  watching  this  new  master,  after 
the  manner  of  a  dog  who  was  a  judge  of  men.  He  sniffed 
at  Wade.  He  grew  a  little  less  surly. 

Wade's  gaze,  however,  was  on  the  path  that  led  down 
along  the  border  of  the  brook  to  disappear  in  the  willows. 
Above  this  clump  of  yellowing  trees  could  be  seen  the 
ranch-house.  A  girl  with  fair  hair  stepped  off  the  porch. 
She  appeared  to  be  carrying  something  in  her  arms,  and 
shortly  disappeared  behind  the  willows.  Wade  saw  her 
and  surmised  that  she  was  coming  to  his  cabin.  He  did 
not  expect  any  more  or  think  any  more.  His  faculties 
condensed  to  the  objective  one  of  sight. 

The  girl,  when  she  reappeared,  was  perhaps  a  hundred 
yards  distant.  Wade  bent  on  her  one  keen,  clear  glance. 
Then  his  brain  and  his  blood  beat  wildly.  He  saw  a 
slender  girl  in  riding-costume,  lithe  and  strong,  with  the 
free  step  of  one  used  to  the  open.  It  was  this  form,  this 
step  that  struck  Wade.  " My — God!  how  like  Lucy!"  he 
whispered,  and  he  tried  to  pierce  the  distance  to  see  her 
face.  It  gleamed  in  the  sunshine.  Her  fair  hair  waved 
in  the  wind.  She  was  coming,  but  so  slowly!  All  of 
Wade  that  was  physical  and  emotional  seemed  to 

87 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

clamped.  The  moment  was  age-long,  with  nothing  be 
yond  it.  While  she  was  still  at  a  distance  her  face  became 
distinct.  And  Wade  sustained  a  terrible  shock.  .  .  .  Then, 
as  one  in  a  dream,  as  in  a  blur  of  strained  peering  into  a 
maze,  he  saw  the  face  of  his  sweetheart,  his  wife,  the  Lucy 
of  his  early  manhood.  It  moved  him  out  of  the  past. 
Closer!  Pang  on  pang  quivered  in  his  heart.  Was  this 
only  a  nightmare?  Or  had  he  at  last  gone  mad!  This 
girl  raised  her  head.  She  was  looking — she  saw  him. 
Terror  mounted  upon  Wade's  consciousness. 

"That's  Lucy's  face!"  he  gasped.  "So  help— me,  God! 
.  .  .  It's  for  this — I  wandered  here!  She's  my  flesh  an* 
blood — my  Lucy's  child — my  own!" 

Fear  and  presentiment  and  blank  amaze  and  stricken 
consciousness  left  him  in  the  lightning-flash  of  divination 
that  was  recognition  as  well.  A  shuddering  cataclysm 
enveloped  him,  a  passion  so  stupendous  that  it  almost 
brought  oblivion. 

The  three  hounds  leaped  up  with  barks  and  wagging 
tails.  They  welcomed  this  visitor.  Kane  lost  still  more 
of  his  canine  aloofness. 

Wade's  breast  heaved.  The  blue  sky,  the  gray  hills, 
the  green  willows,  all  blurred  in  his  sight,  that  seemed  to 
hold  clear  only  the  face  floating  closer. 

"I'm  Columbine  Belllounds,"  said  a  voice. 

It  stilled  the  storm  in  Wade.  It  was  real.  It  was  a 
voice  of  twenty  years  ago.  The  burden  on  his  breast 
lifted.  Then  flashed  the  spirit,  the  old  self-control  of  a 
man  whose  life  had  held  many  terrible  moments. 

"Mornin',  miss.  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,"  he  replied, 
and  there  was  no  break,  no  tone  unnatural  in  his  greeting. 

So  they  gazed  at  each  other,  she  with  that  instinctive 
look  peculiar  to  women  in  its  intuitive  powers,  but  com 
mon  to  all  persons  who  had  lived  far  from  crowds  and  to 

88 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

whom  a  new-comer  was  an  event.  Wade's  gaze,  intense 
and  all-embracing,  found  that  face  now  closer  in  resem 
blance  to  the  imagined  Lucy's — a  pretty  face,  rather  than 
beautiful,  but  strong  and  sweet — its  striking  qualities 
being  a  colorless  fairness  of  skin  that  yet  held  a  rose  and 
golden  tint,  and  the  eyes  of  a  rare  and  exquisite  shade  of 
blue. 

"Oh!  Are  you  feeling  ill?"  she  asked.  "You  look  so 
— so  pale." 

"No.  I'm  only  tuckered  out,"  replied  Wade,  easily, 
as  he  wiped  the  clammy  drops  from  his  brow.  "  It  was  a 
long  ride  to  get  here." 

"I'm  the  lady  of  the  house,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 
"I'm  glad  to  welcome  you  to  White  Slides,  and  hope  you'll 
like  it." 

"Well,  Miss  Columbine,  I  reckon  I  will,"  he  replied, 
returning  the  smile.  "Now  if  I  was  younger  I'd  like  it 
powerful  much." 

She  laughed  at  that.     "  Men  are  all  alike,  young  or  old." 

"Don't  ever  think  so,"  said  Wade,  earnestly. 

"No?  I  guess  you're  r'ght  about  that.  I've  fetched 
you  UP  some  things  for  your  cabin.  May  I  peep  in? " 

"Come  in,"  replied  Wade,  rising.  "You  must  excuse 
my  manners.  It's  long  indeed  since  I  had  a  lady  caller." 

She  went  in,  and  Wade,  standing  on  the  threshold,  saw 
her  survey  the  room  with  a  woman's  sweeping  g1ance. 

"I  told  dad  to  put  some — " 

"Miss,  your  dad  told  me  to  go  get  them,  an'  I've  not 
done  it  yet.  But  I  will  presently." 

"Very  well.  I'll  leave  these  things  and  come  back 
later,"  she  replied,  depositing  a  bundle  upon  the  floor. 
"You  won't  mind  if  I  try  to — to  make  you  a  little  com 
fortable.  It's  dreadful  the  way  outdoor  men  live  when 
they  do  get  indoors." 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"I  reckon  I'll  be  slow  in  let  tin'  you  see  what  a  good 
housekeeper  I  am,"  he  replied.  "Because  then,  maybe, 
I'll  see  more  of  you." 

"  Weren't  you  a  sad  flatterer  in  your  day  ? "  she  queried, 
archly. 

Her  intonation,  the  tilt  of  her  head,  gave  Wade  such  a 
pang  that  he  could  not  answer.  And  to  hide  his  mo 
mentary  restraint  he  turned  back  to  the  hounds.  Then 
she  came  out  upon  the  porch. 

"I  love  hounds,"  she  said,  patting  Denver,  which  caress 
immediately  made  Jim  and  Sampson  jealous.  "I've 
gotten  on  pretty  well  with  these,  but  that  Kane  won't 
make  up.  Isn't  he  splendid?  But  he's  afraid — no,  not 
afraid  of  me,  but  he  doesn't  like  me." 

"  It's  mistrust.  He's  been  hurt.  I  reckon  he'll  get  over 
that  after  a  while." 

"You  don't  beat  dogs?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"No,  miss.  That's  not  the  way  to  get  on  with  hounds 
or  horses." 

Her  glance  was  a  blue  flash  of  pleasure. 

"How  glad  that  makes  me!  Why,  I  quit  coming  here 
to  see  and  feed  the  dogs  because  somebody  was  always 
kicking  them  around." 

Wade  handed  the  rope  to  her.  "You  hold  them,  so 
when  I  come  out  with  some  meat  they  won't  pile  over 
me."  He  went  inside,  took  all  that  was  left  of  the  deer 
haunch  out  of  his  pack,  and,  picking  up  his  knife,  returned 
co  the  porch.  The  hounds  saw  the  meat  and  yelped. 
They  pulled  on  the  rope. 

"You  hounds  behave,"  ordered  Wade,  as  he  sat  down 
on  the  step  and  began  to  cut  the  meat.  "Jim,  you're  the 
oldest  an'  hungriest.  Here.  .  .  .  Now  you,  Sampson. 
Here!"  .  .  .  The  big  hound  snapped  at  the  meat.  Where 
upon  Wade  slapped  him.  "Are  you  a  pup  or  a  wolf  that 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

you  grab  for  it?  Here."  Sampson  was  slower  to  act,  but 
he  snapped  again.  Whereupon  Wade  hit  him  again,  with 
open  hand,  not  with  violence  or  rancor,  but  a  blow  that 
meant  Sampson  must  obey. 

Next  time  the  hound  did  not  snap.  Denver  had  to  be 
cuffed  several  times  before  he  showed  deference  to  this 
new  master.  But  the  bloodhound  Kane  refused  to  take 
any  meat  out  of  Wade's  hand.  He  growled  and  showed 
his  teeth,  and  sniffed  hungrily. 

"Kane  will  have  to  be  handled  carefully,"  observed 
Wade.  "He'd  bite  pretty  quick." 

"But  he's  so  splendid,"  said  the  girl.  "I  don't  like  to 
think  he's  mean.  You'll  be  good  to  him — try  to  win 
him?" 

"I'll  do  my  best  with  him." 

"Dad's  full  of  glee  that  he  has  a  real  hunter  at  White 
Slides  at  last.  Now  I'm  glad,  anrl  sorry,  too.  I  hate  to 
think  of  little  calves  being  torn  auc5  killed  by  lions  and 
wolves.  And  it's  dreadful  to  know  bears  eat  grown-up 
cattle.  But  I  love  the  mourn  of  a  wolf  and  the  yelp  of  a 
coyote.  I  can't  help  hoping  you  don't  kill  them  all — 
quite." 

"  It's  not  likely,  miss,"  he  replied.  "I'll  be  pretty  sure 
to  clean  out  the  lions  an'  drive  off  the  bears.  But  the  wolf 
family  can't  be  exterminated.  No  animal  so  cunnin'  as 
a  wolf! .  .  .  I'll  tell  you. . .  .  Some  years  ago  I  went  to  cook 
on  a  ranch  north  of  Denver,  on  the  edge  of  the  plains. 
An'  right  off  I  began  to  hear  stories  about  a  big  ^obo — a 
wolf  that  was  an  old  residenter.  He'd  been  known  for 
long,  an'  he  got  meaner  an'  wiser  as  he  was  hunted.  His 
specialty  got  to  be  yearlings,  an'  the  ranchers  all  over 
rose  up  in  arms  against  him.  They  hired  all  the  old  hunt 
ers  an'  trappers  in  the  country  to  kill  him.  No  good! 
Old  Lobo  went  right  on  pullin'  down  yearlings.  Every 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

night  he'd  get  one  or  more.  An'  he  was  so  cute  an*  so 
swift  that  he'd  work  on  different  ranches  on  different 
nights.  Finally  he  killed  eleven  yearlings  for  my  boss 
on  one  night.  Eleven!  Think  of  that.  An'  then  I  said 
to  my  boss,  'I  reckon  you'd  better  let  me  go  kill  that 
gray  butcher.'  An'  my  boss  laughed  at  me.  But  he  let 
me  go.  He'd  have  tried  anythin'.  I  took  a  hunk  of  meat, 
a  blanket,  my  gun,  an'  a  pair  of  snow-shoes,  an'  I  set  out 
on  old  Lobo's  tracks.  .  .  .  An',  Miss  Columbine,  I  walked 
old  Lobo  to  death  in  the  snow!" 

"Why,  how  wonderful!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  breathless 
and  glowing  with  interest.  "Oh,  it  seems  a  pity  such  a 
splendid  brute  should  be  killed.  Wild  animals  are  cruel.'' 
I  wish  it  were  different." 

"Life  is  cruel,  miss,  an*  I  echo  your  wish,"  replied 
Wade,  sadly. 

"You  have  had  great  experiences.  Dad  said  to  me, 
*  Collie,  here  at  last  is  a  man  who  can  tell  you  enough 
stories!'  .  .  .  But  I  aou  t  believe  you  ever  could." 

"You  like  stories?"  asked  Wade,  curiously. 

"Love  them.  All  kinds,  but  I  like  adventure  best.  7 
should  have  been  a  boy.  Isn't  it  strange,  I  can't  hurt 
anything  myself  or  bear  to  see  even  a  steer  slaughtered? 
But  you  can't  tell  too  bloody  and  terrible  stories  for  me. 
Except  I  hate  Indian  stories.  The  very  thought  of  Indians 
makes  me  shudder.  .  .  .  Some  day  I'll  tell  you  a  story." 

Wade  could  not  find  his  tongue  readily. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  continued,  and  moved  off  the 
porch.  Then  she  hesitated,  and  turned  with  a  smile  that 
was  wistful  and  impulsive.  "I — I  believe  we'll  be  good 
friends." 

"  Miss  Columbine,  we  sure  will,  if  I  can  live  up  to  my 
part,"  replied  Wade. 

Her  smile  deepened,  even  while  her  gaze  grew  unco*** 

92 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

sciously  penetrating.  Wade  felt  how  subtly  they  were' 
drawn  to  each  other.  But  she  had  no  inkling  of  that. 

"It  takes  two  to  make  a  bargain,"  she  replied,  seriously. 
"  I've  my  part.  Good-by." 

Wade  watched  her  lithe  stride,  and  as  she  drew  away 
the  restraint  he  had  put  upon  himself  loosened.  When 
she  disappeared  his  feeling  burst  all  bounds.  Dragging 
the  dogs  inside,  he  closed  the  door.  Then,  like  one  broken 
and  spent,  he  fell  face  against  the  wall,  with  the  hoarsely 
whispered  words,  "I'm  thankin'  God!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

O  EPTEMBER'S  glory  of  gold  and  red  and  purple  began 
^  to  fade  with  the  autumnal  equinox.  It  rained  enough 
to  soak  the  frost-bitten  leaves,  and  then  the  mountain 
winds  sent  them  flying  and  fluttering  and  scurrying  to 
carpet  the  dells  and  spot  the  pools  in  the  brooks  and  color 
the  trails.  When  the  weather  cleared  and  the  sun  rose 
bright  again  many  of  the  aspen  thickets  were  leafless  and 
bare,  and  the  willows  showed  stark  against  the  gray  sage 
hills,  and  the  vines  had  lost  their  fire.  Hills  and  valleys 
had  sobered  with  subtle  change  that  left  them  none  the 
(ess  beautiful. 

A  mile  or  more  down  the  road  from  White  Slides,  in  a 
protected  nook,  nestled  two  cabins  belonging  to  a  cattle 
man  named  Andrews,  who  had  formerly  worked  for  Bell- 
lounds  and  had  recently  gone  into  the  stock  business  for 
himself.  He  had  a  rather  young  wife,  and  several  chil 
dren,  and  a  brother  who  rode  for  him.  These  people  were 
the  only  neighbors  of  Belllounds  for  some  ten  miles  on 
the  road  toward  Kremmling. 

Columbine  liked  Mrs.  Andrews  and  often  rode  or  walked 
down  there  for  a  little  visit  and  a  chat  with  her  friend  and 
a  romp  with  the  children. 

Toward  the  end  of  September  Columbine  found  herself 
combating  a  strong  desire  to  go  down  to  the  Andrews 
ranch  and  try  to  learn  some  news  about  Wilson  Moore. 
If  anything  had  been  heard  at  White  Slides  it  certainly 
had  not  been  told  her.  Jack  Belllounds  had  ridden  tf 

04 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Kremmling  and  back  in  one  day,  but  Columbine  would 
have  endured  much  before  asking  him  for  information. 

She  did,  however,  inquire  of  the  freighter  who  hauled 
Belllounds's  supplies,  and  the  answer  she  got  was  awk 
wardly  evasive.  That  nettled  Columbine.  Also  it  raised 
a  suspicion  which  she  strove  to  subdue.  Finally  it  seemed 
apparent  that  Wilson  Moore's  name  was  not  to  be  men 
tioned  to  her. 

First,  in  her  growing  resentment,  she  had  an  impulse 
to  go  to  her  new  friend,  the  hunter  Wade,  and  confide  in 
him  not  only  her  longing  to  learn  about  Wilson,  but  also 
other  matters  that  were  growing  daily  more  burdensome. 
How  strange  for  her  to  feel  that  in  some  way  Jack  Bell- 
lounds  had  come  between  her  and  the  old  man  she  loved 
and  called  father!  Columbine  had  not  divined  that  until 
lately.  She  felt  it  now  in  the  fact  that  she  no  longer 
sought  the  rancher  as  she  used  to,  and  he  had  apparently 
avoided  her.  But  then,  Columbine  reflected,  she  might 
be  entirely  wrong,  for  when  Belllounds  did  meet  her  at 
meal-times,  or  anywhere,  he  seemed  just  as  affectionate 
as  of  old.  Still  he  was  not  the  same  man.  A  chill,  an 
atmosphere  of  shadow,  had  pervaded  the  once  wholesome 
ranch.  And  so,  feeling  not  yet  well  enough  acquainted 
with  Wade  to  confide  so  intimately  in  him,  she  stifled  her 
impulses  and  resolved  to  make  some  effort  herself  to  find 
out  what  she  wanted  to  know. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  when  she  started  out  to  walk 
down  to  the  Andrews  ranch  she  encountered  Jack  Ball- 
lounds. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  inquired,  inquisitively. 

"I'm  going  to  see  Mrs.  Andrews,"  she  replied. 

"No,  you're  not!"  he  declared,  quickly,  with  a  flash. 

Columbine  felt  a  queer  sensation  deep  within  her,  a 
hot  little  gathering  that  seemed  foreign  to  her  physical 

95 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

being,  and  ready  to  burst  out.  Of  late  it  had  stirred  in 
her  at  words  or  acts  of  Jack  Belllounds.  She  gazed 
steadily  at  him,  and  he  returned  her  look  with  interest. 
What  he  was  thinking  she  had  no  idea  of,  but  for  herself 
it  was  a  recurrence  and  an  emphasis  of  the  fact  that  she 
seemed  growing  farther  away  from  this  young  man  she 
had  to  marry.  The  weeks  since  his  arrival  had  been  the 
most  worrisome  she  could  remember. 

"I  am  going,"  she  replied,  slowly. 

"No!"  he  replied,  violently.  "I  won't  have  you  run 
ning  off  down  there  to — to  gossip  with  that  Andrews 
woman." 

"Oh,  you  won't?"  inquired  Columbine,  very  quietly. 
How  little  he  understood  her! 

"That's  what  I  said." 

"You're  not  my  boss  yet,  Mister  Jack  Belllounds,"  she 
flashed,  her  spirit  rising.  He  could  irritate  her  as  no  one 
else. 

"I  soon  will  be.  And  what's  a  matter  of  a  week  or  a 
month?"  he  went  on,  calming  down  a  little. 

"I've  promised,  yes,"  she  said,  feeling  her  face  blanch, 
"and  I  keep  my  promises.  .  .  .  But  I  didn't  say  when.  If 
you  talk  like  that  to  me  it  might  be  a  good  many  weeks — 
or — or  months  before  I  name  the  day." 

"Columbine!"  he  cried,  as  she  turned  away.  There 
was  genuine  distress  in  his  voice.  Columbine  felt  again 
an  assurance  that  had  troubled  her.  No  matter  how  she 
was  reacting  to  this  new  relation,  it  seemed  a  fearful  truth 
that  Jack  was  really  falling  in  love  with  her.  This  time 
she  did  not  soften. 

"Ill  call  dad  to  make  you  stay  home,"  he  burst  out 
again,  his  temper  rising. 

Columbine  wheeled  as  on  a  pivot. 

"If  you  do  you've  got  less  sense  than  I  thought." 

96 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Passion  claimed  him  then. 

"I  know  why  you're  going.  It's  to  see  that  club-footed 
cowboy  Moore!  .  .  .  Don't  let  me  catch  you  with  him!" 

Columbine  turned  her  back  upon  Belllounds  and  swung 
away,  every  pulse  in  her  throbbing  and  smarting.  She 
hurried  on  into  the  road.  She  wanted  to  run,  not  to  get 
out  of  sight  or  hearing,  but  to  fly  from  something,  she 
knew  not  what. 

"Oh!  it's  more  than  his  temper!"  she  cried,  hot  tears 
in  her  eyes.  "  He's  mean — mean — MEAN  !  What's  the  use 
of  me  denying  that — any  more — just  because  I  love  dad? 
. .  .  My  life  will  be  wretched.  ...  It  is  wretched!" 

Her  anger  did  not  last  long,  nor  did  her  resentment. 
She  reproached  herself  for  the  tart  replies  that  had  in 
flamed  Jack.  Never  again  would  she  forget  herself! 

"But  he — he  makes  me  furious,"  she  cried,  in  sudden 
excuse  for  herself.  "What  did  he  say?  'That  club- 
footed  cowboy  Moore' ! .  .  .  Oh,  that  was  vile.  He's  heard, 
then,  that  poor  Wilson  has  a  bad  foot,  perhaps  perma 
nently  crippled.  ...  If  it's  true  .  .  .  But  why  should  he 
yell  that  he  knew  I  wanted  to  see  Wilson?  ...  I  did  not! 
I  do  not Oh,  but  I  do,  I  do!" 

And  then  Columbine  was  to  learn  straightway  that  she 
would  forget  herself  again,  that  she  had  forgotten,  and 
that  a  sadder,  stranger  truth  was  dawning  upon  her — 
she  was  discovering  another  Columbine  within  herself,  a 
wilful,  passionate,  different  creature  who  would  no  longer 
be  denied. 

Almost  before  Columbine  realized  that  she  had  started 
upon  the  visit  she  was  within  sight  of  the  Andrews  ranch. 
So  swiftly  had  she  walked !  It  behooved  her  to  hide  such 
excitement  as  had  dominated  her.  And  to  that  end  she 
slowed  her  pace,  trying  to  put  her  mind  on  other  matters. 

The  children  saw  her  first  and  rushed  upon  her,  so  that 

97 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

when  she  reached  the  cabin  door  she  could  not  well  have 
been  otherwise  than  rosy  and  smiling.  Mrs.  Andrews, 
ruddy  and  strong,  looked  the  pioneer  rancher's  hard 
working  wife.  Her  face  brightened  at  the  advent  of 
Columbine,  and  showed  a  little  surprise  and  curiosity  as 
well. 

"Laws,  but  it's  good  to  see  you,  Columbine,"  was  her 
greeting.  "You  'ain't  been  here  for  a  long  spell." 

"I've  been  coming,  but  just  put  it  off,"  replied  Colum 
bine. 

And  so,  after  the  manner  of  women  neighbors,  they 
began  to  talk  of  the  fall  round-up,  and  the  near  approach 
of  winter  with  its  loneliness,  and  the  children,  all  of  which 
naturally  led  to  more  personal  and  interesting  topics. 

"An'  is  it  so,  Columbine,  that  you're  to  marry  Jack 
Belllounds?"  asked  Mrs.  Andrews,  presently. 

"Yes,  I  guess  it  is,"  replied  Columbine,  smiling. 

"Humph!  I'm  no  relative  of  yours  or  even  a  particu 
lar,  close  friend,  but  I'd  like  to  say — " 

"Please  don't,"  interposed  Columbine. 

"All  right,  my  girl.  I  guess  it's  better  I  don't  say 
anythin'.  It's  a  pity,  though,  onless  you  love  this  Buster 
Jack.  An'  you  never  used  to  do  that,  I'll  swan." 

"No,  I  don't  love  Jack — yet — as  I  ought  to  love  a  hus 
band.  But  I'll  try,  and  if — ii  I — I  never  do — still,  it's  my 
duty  to  marry  him." 

"Some  woman  ought  to  talk  to  Bill  Belllounds,"  de 
clared  Mrs.  Andrews  with  a  grimness  that  boded  ill  for 
the  old  rancher. 

"Did  you  know  we  had  a  new  man  up  at  the  ranch?" 
asked  Columbine,  changing  the  subject. 

"You  mean  the  hunter,  Hell-Bent  Wade?" 

"Yes.  But  I  hate  that  ridiculous  name,"  said  Colum 
bine. 

98 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"It's  queer,  like  lots  of  names  men  get  in  these  parts. 
An'  it  11  stick.  Wade's  been  here  twice;  once  as  he  was 
passin'  with  the  hounds,  an'  the  other  night.  I  like  him, 
Columbine.  He's  true-blue,  for  all  his  strange  name. 
My  men-folks  took  to  him  like  ducks  to  water." 

"I'm  glad.  I  took  to  him  almost  like  that,"  rejoined 
Columbine.  "He  has  the  saddest  face  I  ever  saw." 

"Sad?  Wai,  yes.  That  man  has  seen  a  good  deal  of 
what  they  tacked  on  to  his  name.  I  laughed  when  I 
seen  him  first.  Little  lame  fellar,  crooked-legged  an' 
ragged,  with  thet  awful  homely  face!  But  I  forgot  how 
he  looked  next  time  he  came." 

"That's  just  it.  He's  not  much  to  look  at,  but  you 
forget  his  homeliness  right  off,"  replied  Columbine, 
warmly.  "You  feel  something  behind  all  his — his  looks." 

"Wai,  you  an'  me  are  women,  an'  we  feel  different," 
replied  Mrs.  Andrews.  "Now  my  men -folks  take  much 
store  on  what  Wade  can  do.  He  fixed  up  Tom's  gun, 
that's  been  out  of  whack  for  a  year.  He  made  our 
clock  run  ag'in,  an'  run  better  than  ever.  Then  he 
saved  our  cow  from  that  poison-weed.  An'  Tom  gave 
her  up  to  die." 

"The  boys  up  home  were  telling  me  Mr.  Wade  had 
saved  some  of  our  cattle.  Dad  was  delighted.  You 
know  he's  lost  a  good  many  head  of  stock  from  this  poison- 
weed.  I  saw  so  many  dead  steers  on  my  last  ride  up  the 
mountain.  It's  too  bad  our  new  man  didn't  get  here 
sooner  to  save  them.  I  asked  him  how  he  did  it,  and  he 
said  he  was  a  doctor." 

"A  cow-doctor,"  laughed  Mrs.  Andrews.  "Wai,  that's 
a  new  one  on  me.  Accordin'  to  Tom,  this  here  Wade, 
when  he  seen  our  sick  cow,  said  she'd  eat  poison-weed — 
larkspur,  I  think  he  called  it — an'  then  when  she  drank 
water  it  formed  a  gas  in  her  stomach  an'  she  swelled  up 

99 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

tumble.  Wade  jest  stuck  his  knife  in  her  side  a  little  an* 
let  the  gas  out,  and  she  got  well." 

"Ughh!  .  .  .  What  cruel  doctoring!  But  if  it  saves  the 
cattle,  then  it's  good." 

"  It  '11  save  them  if  they  can  be  got  to  right  off,"  replied 
Mrs.  Andrews. 

"Speaking  of  doctors,"  went  on  Columbine,  striving  to 
make  her  query  casual,  "do  you  know  whether  or  not 
Wilson  Moore  had  his  foot  treated  by  a  doctor  at  Kremm- 
Hng?" 

"He  did  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Andrews.  "Wasn't  no 
doctor  there.  They'd  had  to  send  to  Denver,  an',  as  Wils 
couldn't  take  that  trip  or  wait  so  long,  why,  Mrs.  Plum- 
mer  fixed  up  his  foot.  She  made  a  good  job  of  it,  too,  as 
I  can  testify." 

"Oh,  I'm — very  thankful!"  murmured  Columbine. 
"He'll  not  be  crippled  or — or  club-footed,  then?" 

"I  reckon  not.  You  can  see  for  yourself.  For  Wils  's 
here.  He  was  drove  up  night  before  last  an'  is  stayin' 
with  my  brother-in-law — in  the  other  cabin  there." 

Mrs.  Andrews  launched  all  this  swiftly,  with  evident 
pleasure,  but  with  more  of  woman's  subtle  motive.  Her 
eyes  were  bent  with  shrewd  kindness  upon  the  younger 
woman. 

"Here!"  exclaimed  Columbine,  with  a  start,  and  for  an 
instant  she  was  at  the  mercy  of  conflicting  surprise  and 
joy  and  alarm.  Alternately  she  flushed  and  paled. 

"Sure  he's  here,"  replied  Mrs.  Andrews,  now  looking 
out  of  the  door.  "He  ought  to  be  in  sight  somewheres. 
He's  walkin'  with  a  crutch." 

"Crutch!"  cried  Columbine,  in  dismay. 

"Yes,  crutch,  an'  he  made  it  himself.  ...  I  don't  see 
him  nowheres.  Mebbe  he  went  in  when  he  see  you 
comin'.  For  he's  powerful  sensitive  about  that  crutch." 

100 


THE  MYSTERIOUS   RIDER 

"Then — if  he's  so — so  sensitive,  perhaps  I'd  better 
go,"  said  Columbine,  struggling  with  embarrassment  and 
discomfiture.  What  if  she  happened  to  meet  him! 
Would  he  imagine  her  purpose  in  coming  there?  Her 
heart  began  to  beat  unwontedly. 

"Suit  yourself,  lass,"  replied  Mrs.  Andrews,  kindly. 
"I  know  you  and  Wils  quarreled,  for  he  told  me.  An' 
it's  a  pity.  .  .  .  Wai,  if  you  must  go,  I  hope  you'll  come 
again  before  the  snow  flies.  Good-by." 

Columbine  bade  her  a  hurried  good-by  and  ventured 
forth  with  misgivings.  And  almost  around  the  corner  of 
the  second  cabin,  which  she  had  to  pass,  and  before  she 
had  time  to  recover  her  composure,  she  saw  Wilson  Moore, 
hobbling  along  on  a  crutch,  holding  a  bandaged  foot  off 
the  ground.  He  had  seen  her;  he  was  hurrying  to  avoid 
a  meeting,  or  to  get  behind  the  corrals  there  before  she 
observed  him. 

"Wilson!"  she  called,  involuntarily.  The  instant  the 
name  left  her  lips  she  regretted  it.  But  too  late!  The 
cowboy  halted,  slowly  turned. 

Then  Columbine  walked  swiftly  up  to  him,  suddenly  as 
brave  as  she  had  been  fearful .  Sight  of  him  had  changed  her. 

"Wilson  Moore,  you  meant  to  avoid  me,"  she  said,  with 
reproach. 

"Howdy,  Columbine!"  he  drawled,  ignoring  her  words.^ 

"Oh,  I  was  so  sorry  you  were  hurt!"  she  burst  out. 
"And  now  I'm  so  glad — you're — you're  .  .  .  Wilson, 
you're  thin  and  pale — you've  suffered!" 

"It  pulled  me  down  a  bit,"  he  replied. 

Columbine  had  never  before  seen  his  face  anything 
except  bronzed  and  lean  and  healthy,  but  now  it  bore 
testimony  to  pain  and  strain  and  patient  endurance.  He 
looked  older.  Something  in  the  fine,  dark,  hazel  eyes  hurt 
her  deeply. 

101 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"  You  never  sent  me  word,"  she  went  on,  reproachfully. 
"No  one  would  tell  me  anything.  The  boys  said  they 
didn't  know.  Dad  was  angry  when  I  asked  him.  I'd 
never  have  asked  Jack.  And  the  freighter  who  drove  up 
— he  lied  to  me.  So  I  came  down  here  to-day  purposely 
to  ask  news  of  you,  but  I  never  dreamed  you  were  here, 
.  .  .  Now  I'm  glad  I  came." 

What  a  singular,  darkly  kind,  yet  strange  glance  he  gave 
her! 

"That  was  like  you,  Columbine,"  he  said.  "I  knew 
you'd  feel  badly  about  my  accident.  But  how  could  I 
send  word  to  you?" 

"You  saved — Pronto,"  she  returned,  with  a  strong 
tremor  in  her  voice.  "I  can't  thank  you  enough." 

"  That  was  a  funny  thing.  Pronto  went  out  of  his  head. 
I  hope  he's  all  right." 

"He's  almost  well.  It  took  some  time  to  pick  all  the 
splinters  out  of  him.  He'll  be  all  right  soon — none  the  worse 
for  that — that  cowboy  trick  of  Mister  Jack  Belllounds." 

Columbine  finished  bitterly.  Moore  turned  his  thought* 
ful  gaze  away  from  her. 

"I  hope  Old  Bill  is  well,"  he  remarked,  lamely. 

"Have  you  told  your  folks  of  your  accident?"  asked 
Columbine,  ignoring  his  remark. 

"No." 

"Oh,  Wilson,  you  ought  to  have  sent  for  them,  or  have 
written  at  least." 

"Me?  To  go  crying  for  them  when  I  got  in  trouble? 
I  couldn't  see  it  that  way." 

"Wilson,  you'll  be  going — home — soon — to  Denver— 
won't  you?"  she  faltered. 

"No,  "he  replied,  shortly. 

"But  what  will  you  do?  Surely  you  can't  work — not 
so  soon?" 

IO2 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Columbine,  I'll  never — be  able  to  ride  again — like  I 
used  to,"  he  said,  tragically.  "Ill  ride,  yes,  but  never 
the  old  way." 

"Oh!"  Columbine's  tone,  and  the  exquisite  softness 
and  tenderness  with  which  she  placed  a  hand  on  the  rude 
crutch  would  have  been  enlightening  to  any  one  but  these 
two  absorbed  in  themselves.  "I  can't  bear  to  believe 
that." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  true.  Bad  smash,  Columbine!  I  just 
missed  being  club-footed." 

"You  should  have  care.  You  should  have  .  . .  Wilson, 
do  you  intend  to  stay  here  with  the  Andrews?" 

"  Not  much.  They  have  troubles  of  their  own.  Colum 
bine,  I'm  going  to  homestead  one  hundred  and  sixty 
acres." 

* '  Homestead ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  amaze.    ' '  Where  ? ' ' 

"Up  there  under  Old  White  Slides.  I've  long  intended 
to.  You  know  that  pretty  little  valley  under  the  red 
bluff.  There's  a  fine  spring.  You've  been  there  with  me. 
There  by  the  old  cabin  built  by  prospectors?" 

"Yes,  I  know.  It's  a  pretty  place — fine  valley,  but 
Wils,  you  can't  live  there,"  she  expostulated. 

"Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"That  little  cubby-hole!  It's  only  a  tiny  one-room 
cabin,  roof  all  gone,  chinks  open,  chimney  crumbling. 
.  .  .  Wilson,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  want  to  live 
there  alone?" 

"Sure.  What  'd  you  think?"  he  replied,  with  sarcasm. 
"Expect  me  to  marry  some  girl?  Well,  I  wouldn't,  even 
if  any  one  would  have  a  cripple." 

"Who — who  will  take  care  of  you?"  she  asked,  blushing 
furiously. 

"I'll  take  care  of  myself,"  he  declared.  "Good  Lord* 
Columbine,  I'm  not  an  invalid  yet.  I've  got  a  few  friends 

103 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

who  '11  help  me  fix  up  the  cabin.  And  that  reminds  me, 
There's  a  lot  of  my  stuff  up  in  the  bunk-house  at  White 
Slides.  I'm  going  to  drive  up  soon  to  haul  it  away." 

"  Wilson  Moore,  do  you  mean  it  ? "  she  asked,  with  grave 
wonder.  "Are  you  going  to  homestead  near  White  Slides 
Ranch — and  live  there — when — " 

She  could  not  finish.  An  overwhelming  disaster,  fcr 
which  she  had  no  name,  seemed  to  be  impending. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  he  replied.  "  Funny  how  things  turn  out, 
isn't  it?" 

"It's  very — very  funny,"  she  said,  dazedly,  and  she 
turned  slowly  away  without  another  word. 

"Good-by,  Columbine,"  he  called  out  after  her,  with 
farewell,  indeed,  in  his  voice. 

All  the  way  home  Columbine  was  occupied  with  feel-' 
ings  that  swayed  her  to  the  exclusion  of  rational  consid 
eration  of  the  increasing  perplexity  of  her  situation.  And 
to  make  matters  worse,  when  she  arrived  at  the  ranch  it 
was  to  meet  Jack  Belllounds  with  a  face  as  black  as  a 
thunder-cloud. 

"The.  old  man  wants  to  see  you,"  he  announced,  with 
an  accent  that  recalled  his  threat  of  a  few  hours  back. 

"Does  he?"  queried  Columbine,  loftily.  "From  the 
courteous  way  you  speak  I  imagine  it's  important." 

Belllounds  did  not  deign  to  reply  to  this.  He  sat  on 
the  porch,  where  evidently  he  had  awaited  her  return, 
and  he  looked  anything  but  happy. 

"Where  is  dad?"  continued  Columbine. 

Jack  motioned  toward  the  second  door,  beyond  which 
he  sat,  the  one  that  opened  into  the  room  the  rancher  used 
as  a  kind  of  office  and  storeroom.  As  Columbine  walked 
by  Jack  he  grasped  her  skirt. 

"Columbine!  you're  angry?"  he  said,  appealing!^ 

"I  reckon  I  am,"  replied  Columbine0 

104 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

''Don't  go  in  to  dad  when  you're  that  way,"  implored 
Jack.  "He's  angry,  too — and — and — it'll  only  make 
matters  worse." 

From  long  experience  Columbine  could  divine  when 
Jack  had  done  something  in  the  interest  of  self  and  then 
had  awakened  to  possible  consequences.  She  pulled  away 
from  him  without  replying,  and  knocked  on  the  office 
door. 

"Come  in,"  called  the  rancher. 

Columbine  went  in.     "Hello,  dad!  Do  you  want  me?" 

Belllounds  sat  at  an  old  table,  bending  over  a  soiled 
ledger,  with  a  stubby  pencil  in  his  huge  hand.  When  he 
looked  up  Columbine  gave  a  little  start. 

" Where' ve  you  been?"  he  asked,  gruffly. 

"I've  been  calling  on  Mrs.  Andrews,"  replied  Colum 
bine. 

"Did  you  go  thar  to  see  her?" 

"Why — certainly!"  answered  Columbine,  with  a  slow,' 
break  in  her  speech. 

"You  didn't  go  to  meet  Wilson  Moore?" 

"No." 

"An'  I  reckon  you'll  say  you  hadn't  heerd  he  was 
there?" 

"I  had  not,"  flashed  Columbine. 

"Wai,  did  you  see  him?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  did,  but  quite  by  accident." 

"  Ahuh !     Columbine,  are  you  lyin'  to  me  ?  " 

The  hot  blood  flooded  to  Columbine's  cheeks,  as  if  she 
had  been  struck  a  blow. 

"Dad!"  she  cried,  in  hurt  amaze. 

Belllounds  seemed  thick,  imponderable,  as  if  something 
Jhad  forced  a  crisis  in  him  and  his  brain  was  deeply  in 
volved.  The  habitual,  cool,  easy,  bold,  and  frank  attitude 
an  the  meeting  of  all  situations  seemed  to  have  been  en? 

8  105 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

croached  upon  by  a  break,  a  bewilderment,  a  lessening  of 
confidence. 

"Wai,  are  you  lyin'?"  he  repeated,  either  blind  to  or 
unaware  of  her  distress. 

"I  could  not — lie  to  you,"  she  faltered,  "even — if — I 
wanted  to." 

The  heavy,  shadowed  gaze  of  his  big  eyes  was  bent 
upon  her  as  if  she  had  become  a  new  and  perplexing 
problem. 

"But  you  seen  Moore?" 

' '  Yes — sir. ' '    Columbine's  spirit  rose. 

"An' talked  with  him?" 

"Of  course." 

"Lass,  I  ain't  likin'  thet,  an'  I  ain't  likin*  the  way  you 
look  an'  speak." 

"  I  am  sorry.     I  can't  help  either." 

"What  'd  this  cowboy  say  to  you?" 

"We  talked  mostly  about  his  injured  foot." 

"An*  what  else?"  went  on  Belllounds,  his  voice  rising. 

"About — what  he  meant  to  do  now." 

"Ahuh!  An'  thet's  homesteadin'  the  Sage  Creek 
Valley?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Did  you  want  him  to  do  thet?" 

"I!    Indeed  I  didn't." 

"Columbine,  not  so  long  ago  you  told  me  this  fellar 
wasn't  sweet  on  you.  An'  do  you  still  say  that  to  me — 
are  you  still  insistin'  he  ain't  in  love  with  you?" 

"He  never  said  so — I  never  believed  it ...  and  now  I'm 
sure — he  isn't!" 

"Ahuh!  Wai,  thet  same  day  you  was  jest  as  sure  you 
didn't  care  anythin'  particular  fer  him.  Are  you  thet  sure 
now?" 

"No!"  whispered  Columbine,  very  low.  She  trembled 

106 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

with  a  suggestion  of  unknown  forces.  Not  to  save  a  new 
and  growing  pride  would  she  evade  any  question  from  this 
man  upon  whom  she  had  no  claim,  to  whom  she  owed 
her  life  and  her  bringing  up.  But  something  cold  formed 
in  her. 

Belllounds,  self-centered  and  serious  as  he  strangely 
was,  seemed  to  check  his  probing,  either  from  fear  of  hear 
ing  more  from  her  or  from  an  awakening  of  former  kind 
ness.  But  her  reply  was  a  shock  to  him,  and,  throwing 
down  his  pencil  with  the  gesture  of  a  man  upon  whom 
decision  was  forced,  he  rose  to  tower  over  her. 

"You've  been  like  a  daughter  to  me.  I've  done  all  I 
knowed  how  fer  you.  I've  lived  up  to  the  best  of  my 
lights.  An*  I've  loved  you,"  he  said,  sonorously  and 
pathetically.  "You  know  what  my  hopes  are — fer  the 
boy — an'  fer  you.  .  .  .  We  needn't  waste  any  more  talk. 
Prom  this  minnit  you're  free  to  do  as  you  like.  What 
ever  you  do  won't  make  any  change  in  my  carin'  fef 
you.  .  .  .  But  you  gotta  decide.  Will  you  marry  Jack 
or  not?" 

"I  promised  you — I  would.  I'll  keep  my  word.1*  re 
plied  Columbine,  steadily. 

"  So  far  so  good, ' '  went  on  the  rancher,  "  Tin  respectm' 
you  fer  what  you  say.  .  .  .  An'  now,  when  will  you  marry 
him?" 

The  little  room  drifted  around  in  Columbine's  vague, 
blank  sight.  All  seemed  to  be  drifting.  She  had  no  solid 
anchor. 

"Any — day  you  say — the  sooner  the — better,"  she 
whispered. 

"Wai,  lass,  I'm  thankin'  you,"  he  replied,  with  voice 
that  sounded  afar  to  her.  "An*  I  swear,  if  I  didn't  be 
lieve  it's  best  fer  Jack  an'  you,  why  I'd  never  let  you 
marry.  ...  So  well  set  the  day.  October  first?  Thet's 

107 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

the  day  you  was  fetched  to  me  a  baby — more  n  seventeen' 
years  ago." 

"  October — first — then,  dad,"  she  said,  brokenly,  and 
she  kissed  him  as  if  in  token  of  what  she  knew  she  owed 
him.  Then  she  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Jack,  upon  seeing  her,  hastily  got  up,  with  more  than 
concern  in  his  pale  face. 

" Columbine! "  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "How  you  look* .  .  0 
Tell  me.  What  happened?  Girl,  don't  tell  me  you've — 
you've—" 

"Jack  Belllounds,"  interrupted  Columbine,  in  tragic 
amaze  at  this  truth  about  to  issue  from  her  lips,  "I've 
promised  to  marry  you — on  October  first." 

He  let  out  a  shout  of  boyish  exultation  and  suddenly 
clasped  her  in  his  arms.  But  there  was  nothing  boyish  in 
the  way  he  handled  her,  in  the  almost  savage  evidence  of 
possession.  "Collie,  I'm  mad  about  you,"  he  began, 
ardently.  "You  never  let  me  tell  you.  And  I've  grown 
worse  and  worse.  To-day  I — when  I  saw  you  gorog  down 
there — where  that  Wilson  Moore  is — I  got  terribly  jealous. 
I  was  sick.  I'd  been  glad  to  kill  him! ...  It  made  me  see 
how  I  loved  you.  Oh,  I  didn't  know.  But  now  .  .  .  Oh^ 
I'm  mad  for  you!"  He  crushed  her  to  him,  unmindful  of 
her  struggles ;  his  face  and  neck  were  red ;  his  eyes  on  fire. 
And  he  began  trying  to  kiss  her  mouth,  but  failed,  as  she 
struggled  desperately  0  His  kisses  fell  upon  cheek  and  ear 
and  hair. 

"  Let  me — go ! "  panted  Columbine.  "  You've  no — no — 
Oh,  you  might  have  waited."  Breaking  from  him,  she 
fled,  and  got  inside  her  room  with  the  door  almost  closed, 
when  his  foot  intercepted  it. 

Belllounds  was  half  laughing  his  exultation,  half  furious 
at  her  escape,  and  altogether  beside  himself. 

"No,"  she  replied,  so  violently  that  it  appeared  10 

108 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

awake  him  to  the  fact  that  there  was  some  one  besides 
himself  to  consider. 

41  Aw!"  He  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "All  right.  I  won't 
try  to  get  in.  Only  listen.  .  .  .  Collie,  don't  mind  my — 
my  way  of  showing  you  how  I  felt.  Fact  is,  I  went  plumb 
off  my  head.  Is  that  any  wonder,  you — you  darling — 
when  I've  been  so  scared  you'd  never  have  me?  Collie, 
I've  felt  that  you  were  the  one  thing  in  the  world  I  wanted 
most  and  would  never  get.  But  now.  .  .  .  October  first! 
Listen.  I  promise  you  I'll  not  drink  any  more — nor 
gamble — nor  nag  dad  for  money.  I  don't  like  his  way  of 
running  the  ranch,  but  I'll  do  it,  as  long  as  he  lives.  I'll 
even  try  to  tolerate  that  club-footed  cowboy's  brass  in 
homesteading  a  ranch  right  under  my  nose.  I'll — I'll  do 
anything  you  ask  of  me." 

"Then — please — go  away!"  cried  Columbine,  with  a 
sob. 

When  he  was  gone  Columbine  barred  the  door  and 
threw  herself  upon  her  bed  to  shut  out  the  light  and  to 
give  vent  to  her  surcharged  emotions.  She  wept  like  a 
girl  whose  youth  was  ending ;  and  after  the  paroxysm  had 
passed,  leaving  her  weak  and  strangely  changed,  she  tried 
to  reason  out  what  had  happened  to  her.  Over  and  over 
again  she  named  the  appeal  of  the  rancher,  the  sense  of 
her  duty,  the  decision  she  had  reached,  and  the  disgust 
and  terror  inspired  in  her  by  Jack  Belllounds's  reception 
of  her  promise.  These  were  facts  of  the  day  and  they  had 
made  of  her  a  palpitating,  unhappy  creature,  who  never 
theless  had  been  brave  to  face  the  rancher  and  confess 
that  which  she  had  scarce  confessed  to  herself.  But  now 
she  trembled  and  cringed  on  the  verge  of  a  catastrophe 
&hat  withheld  its  whole  truth. 

"I  begin  to  see  now,"  she  whispered,  after  the  thought 
had  come  and  gone  and  returned  to  change  again.  "If 

109 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Wilson  had — cared  for  me  I — I  might  have — cared,  too. 
.  .  .  But  I  do — care — something.  I  couldn't  lie  to  dad. 
Only  I'm  not  sure — how  much.  I  never  dreamed  of — of 
loving  him,  or  any  one.  It's  so  strange.  All  at  once  I  feel 
old.  And  I  can't  understand  these — these  feelings  that 
shake  me." 

So  Columbine  brooded  over  the  trouble  that  had  come 
to  her,  never  regretting  her  promise  to  the  old  rancher, 
but  growing  keener  in  the  realization  of  a  complexity  in 
her  nature  that  sooner  or  later  would  separate  the  life  of 
her  duty  from  the  life  of  her  desire.  She  seemed  all  alone, 
and  when  this  feeling  possessed  her  a  strange  reminder 
of  the  hunter  Wade  flashed  up.  She  stifled  another  im 
pulse  to  confide  in  him.  Wade  had  the  softness  of  a 
woman,  and  his  face  was  a  record  of  the  trials  and  travails 
through  which  he  had  come  unhardened,  unembittered. 
Yet  how  could  she  tell  her  troubles  to  him?  A  stranger, 
a  rough  man  of  the  wilds,  whose  name  had  preceded  him, 
notorious  and  deadly,  with  that  vital  tang  of  the  West 
in  its  meaning!  Nevertheless,  Wade  drew  her,  and  she 
thought  of  him  until  the  recurring  memory  of  Jack  Bell- 
lounds's  rude  clasp  again  crept  over  her  with  an  augment 
ing  disgust  and  fear.  Must  she  submit  to  that?  Had  she 
promised  that?  And  then  Columbine  felt  the  dawning  of 
realities* 


CHAPTER  VH 

/COLUMBINE  was  awakened  in  the  gray  dawn  by 
*<-J  the  barking  of  coyotes.  She  dreaded  the  daylight 
thus  heralded.  Never  before  in  her  life  had  she  hated 
the  rising  of  the  sun.  Resolutely  she  put  the  past  behind 
her  and  faced  the  future,  believing  now  that  with  the  great 
decision  made  she  needed  only  to  keep  her  mind  off  what 
might  have  been,  and  to  attend  to  her  duty. 

At  breakfast  she  found  the  rancher  in  better  spirits 
than  he  had  been  for  weeks.  He  informed  her  that  Jack 
had  ridden  off  early  for  Kremmling,  there  to  make  ar 
rangements  for  the  wedding  on  October  first. 

"Jack's  out  of  his  head,"  said  BeUlounds.  "Wai,  thet 
comes  only  onct  in  a  man's  life.  I  remember  .  .  .  Jack's 
goin'  to  drive  you  to  Krernmlin'  an*  ther  take  stage  fer 
Denver.  I  allow  you'd  better  put  in  your  best  licks  on 
fixin'  up  an'  packin'  the  clothes  you'll  need.  Women-folk 
naturally  want  to  look  smart  on  weddin'-trips." 

"Dad!"  exclaimed  Columbine,  in  dismay.  "I  never 
thought  of  clothes.  And  I  don't  want  to  leave  White 
Slides." 

"But,  lass,  you're  goin'  to  be  married!"  expostulated 
BeUlounds. 

"  Didn't  it  occur  to  Jack  to  take  me  to  Kremmling?  I 
can't  make  new  dresses  out  of  old  ones." 

"Wai,  I  reckon  neither  of  us  thought  of  thet.  But  you 
can  buy  what  you  like  in  Denver." 

Columbine  resigned  herself.  After  all,  what  did  it, 

in 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

matter  to  her?  The  vague,  haunting  dreams  of  girlhood 
would  never  come  true.  So  she  went  to  her  wardrobe  and 
laid  out  all  her  wearing  apparel.  Taking  stock  of  it  this 
way  caused  her  further  dismay,  for  she  had  nothing  fit  to 
wear  in  which  either  to  be  married  or  to  take  a  trip  to 
Denver.  There  appeared  to  be  nothing  to  do  but  take 
the  rancher's  advice,  and  Columbine  set  about  refurbish 
ing  her  meager  wardrobe.  She  sewed  all  day. 

What  with  self-control  and  work  and  the  passing  of 
hours,  Columbine  began  tc  make  some  approach  to  tran 
quillity.  In  her  simplicity  she  even  began  to  hope  that 
being  good  and  steadfast  and  dutiful  would  earn  her  a 
little  meed  of  happiness.  Some  haunting  doubt  of  this 
flashed  over  her  mind  like  a  swift  shadow  of  a  black  wing, 
but  she  dispelled  that  as  she  had  dispelled  the  fear  and 
disgust  which  often  rose  up  in  her  mind. 

To  Columbine's  surprise  and  to  the  rancher's  concern 
the  prospective  bridegroom  did  not  return  from  Kremm- 
ling  on  the  second  day.  When  night  came  Belllounds  re 
luctantly  gave  up  looking  for  him. 

Jack's  non-appearance  suited  Columbine,  and  she 
would  have  been  glad  to  be  let  alone  mtil  October  first, 
which  date  now  seemed  appallingly  close.  On  the  after 
noon  of  Jack's  third  day  of  absence  from  the  ranch  Colum 
bine  rode  out  for  some  needed  exercise.  Pronto  not  being 
available,  she  rode  another  mustang  and  one  that  kept 
her  busy.  On  the  way  back  to  the  ranch  she  avoided  the 
customary  trail  which  led  by  the  cabins  of  Wade  and  the 
cowboys.  Columbine  had  not  seen  one  of  her  friends 
since  the  unfortunate  visit  to  the  Andrews  ranch.  She 
particularly  shrank  from  meeting  Wade,  which  feeling 
was  in  strange  contrast  to  her  former  impulses. 

As  she  rode  around  the  house  she  encountered  Wilson 
Moore  seated  in  a  light  wagon.  Her  mustang  reared, 

112 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

almost  unseating  her.  But  she  handled  him  roughly, 
being  suddenly  surprised  and  angry  at  this  unexpected 
meeting  with  the  cowboy. 

"Howdy,  Columbine!"  greeted  Wilson,  as  she  brought 
the  mustang  to  his  feet.  "  You're  sure  learning  to  handle 
a  horse — since  I  left  this  here  ranch.  Wonder  who's  teach 
ing  you!  I  never  could  get  you  to  rake  even  a  bronc!" 

The  cowboy  had  drawled  out  his  admiring  speech,  half 
amused  and  half  satiric. 

"I'm— mad!"  declared  Columbine.     "That's  why." 

"What  're  you  mad  at?"  queried  Wilson. 

She  did  not  reply,  but  kept  on  gazing  steadily  at  him. 
Moore  still  looked  pale  and  drawn,  but  he  had  improved 
since  last  she  saw  him. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  speak  to  a  fellow?"  he  went  on. 

"How  are  you,  Wils?"  she  asked. 

"Pretty  good  for  a  club-footed  has-been  cow  puncher." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  yourself  such  names,"  re 
joined  Columbine,  peevishly.  "You're  not  a  club-foot. 
I  hate  that  word!" 

"Me,  too.  Well,  joking  aside,  I'm  better.  My  foot  is 
fine.  Now,  if  I  don't  hurt  it  again  I'll  sure  never  be  a 
club-foot." 

"You  must  be  careful,"  she  said,  earnestly. 

"Sure.  But  it's  hard  for  me  to  be  idle.  Think  of  me 
lying  still  all  day  with  nothing  to  do  but  read!  That's 
what  knocked  me  out.  I  wouldn't  have  minded  the  pain 
if  I  could  nave  gotten  about.  .  .  .  Columbine,  I've  moved 
in!" 

4 '  What !     Moved  in  ?  "  she  queried,  blankly. 

"Sure.  I'm  in  my  cabin  on  the  hill.  It's  plumb  great. 
Tom  Andrews  and  Bert  and  your  hunter  Wade  fixed  up 
the  cabin  for  me.  That  Wade  is  sure  a  good  fellow.  And 
say!  what  he  can  do  with  his  hands!  He's  been  kind  to 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

me.    Took  an  interest  ,in  me,  and  between  you  and  me 
he  sort  of  cheered  me  up." 

"Cheered  you  up!  Wils,  were  you  unhappy?"  she 
asked,  directly. 

"Well,  rather.  What  'd  you  expect  of  a  cowboy  who'd 
crippled  himself — and  lost  his  girl?" 

Columbine  felt  the  smart  of  tingling  blood  in  her  face, 
and  she  looked  from  Wilson  to  the  wagon.  It  contained 
saddles,  blankets,  and  other  cowboy  accoutrements  for 
which  he  had  evidently  come. 

"That's  a  double  misfortune,"  she  replied,  evenly. 
"  It's  too  bad  both  came  at  once.  It  seems  to  me  if  I  were 
a  cowboy  and — and  felt  so  toward  a  girl,  I'd  have  let  her 
know." 

"This  girl  I  mean  knew,  all  right,"  he  said,  nodding 
his  head. 

"She  didn't— she  didn't!"  cried  Columbine. 

"How  do  you  know? "  he  queried,  with  feigned  surprise. 
He  was  bent  upon  torturing  her. 

"You  meant  me.     I'm  the  girl  you  lost!" 

"Yes,  you  are — God  help  me!"  replied  Moore,  with 
genuine  emotion. 

"But  you — you  never  told  me — you  never  told  me," 
faltered  Columbine,  in  distress. 

"Never  told  you  what?    That  you  were  my  girl?" 

"No — no.    But  that  you — you  cared — " 

"Columbine  Belllounds,  I  told  you — let  you  see — in 
every  way  under  the  sun,"  he  flashed  at  her. 

"Let  me  see — what?"  faltered  Columbine,  feeling  as  if 
the  world  were  about  to  end. 

"That  I  loved  you." 

"Oh! ...  Wilson!"  whispered  Columbine,  wildly. 

"Yes — loved  you.  Could  you  have  been  so  innocent — 
SO  blind  you  never  knew?  I  can't  believe  it." 

114 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"But  I  never  dreamed  you — you — "  She  broke  off 
dazedly,  overwhelmed  by  a  tragic,  glorious  truth. 

"Collie!  .  .  .  Would  it  have  made  any  difference?" 

"Oh,  all  the  difference  in  the  world!"  she  wailed. 

"What  difference?"  he  asked,  rassionately. 

Columbine  gazed  wide-eyed  and  helpless  at  the  young 
man.  She  did  not  know  how  to  tell  him  what  all  the  dif 
ference  in  the  world  really  was. 

Suddenly  Wilson  turned  away  from  her  to  listen.  Then 
she  heard  rapid  beating  of  hoofs  on  the  road. 

"That's  Buster  Jack,"  said  the  cowboy.  "Just  my 
luck !  There  wasn't  any  one  here  when  I  arrived.  Reckon 
I  oughtn't  have  stayed.  Columbine,  you  look  pretty 
much  upset." 

"What  do  I  care  how  I  look*"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
sharp  resentment  attending  this  abrupt  and  painful  break 
in  her  agitation. 

Next  moment  Jack  Belllounds  galloped  a  foam-lashed 
horse  into  the  courtyard  and  hauled  up  short  with  a  reck 
lessness  he  was  noted  for.  He  swung  down  hard  and 
violently  cast  the  reins  from  him. 

"  Ahuhl    I  gambled  on  just  this,"  he  declared,  harshly. 

Columbine's  heart  sank.  His  gaze  was  fixed  on  hef 
'ace,  with  its  telltale  evidences  of  agitation. 

"What  've  you  been  crying  about?"  he  demanded. 

"I  haven't  been,"  she  retorted. 

His  bold  and  glaring  eyes,  hot  with  sudden  temper^ 
passed  slowly  from  her  to  the  cowboy.  Columbine  be 
came  aware  then  that  Jack  was  under  the  influence  of 
liquor.  His  heated  red  face  grew  darker  with  a  sneering 
contempt. 

"Where's  dad?"  he  asked,  wheeling  toward  her. 

"I  don't  know.  He's  not  here,"  replied  Columbine 
dismounting.  The  leap  of  thought  and  blood  to  Jack% 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

face  gave  her  a  further  sinking  of  the  heart.    The  situa* 
tion  unnerved  her. 

Wilson  Moore  had  grown  a  shade  paler.  He  gathered 
up  his  reins,  ready  to  drive  off. 

"Belllounds,  I  came  up  after  my  things  I'd  left  in  the 
bunk,"  he  said,  coolly.  "Happened  to  meet  Columbine 
and  stopped  to  chat  a  minute." 

"That's  what  you  say,"  sneered  Belllounds.  "You 
were  making  love  to  Columbine.  I  saw  that  in  her  face. 
You  know  it — and  she  knows  it — and  I  know  it.  ... 
You're  a  liar!" 

"Belllounds,  I  reckon  I  am,"  replied  Moore,  turning 
white.  "I  did  tell  Columbine  what  I  thought  she  knew 
— what  I  ought  to  have  told  long  ago." 

"  Ahuh !  Well,  I  don't  want  to  hear  it.  B«t  I'm  going 
to  search  that  wagon." 

"What!"  ejaculated  the  cowboy,  dropping  his  reins  as 
if  they  stung  him. 

"You  just  hold  on  till  I  see  what  you've  got  in  there," 
went  on  Belllounds,  and  he  reached  over  into  the  wagon 
and  pulled  at  a  saddle. 

"Say,  do  you  mean  anything?  .  .  .  This  stuff's  mine, 
every  strap  of  it.  Take  your  hands  off." 

Belllounds  leaned  on  the  wagon  and  looked  up  with 
insolent,  dark  intent. 

"Moore,  I  wouldn't  trust  you.  I  think  you'd  steal 
anything  you  got  your  hands  on." 

Columbine  uttered  a  passionate  little  cry  of  shame  and 
protest. 

"Jack,  how  dare  you!" 

"  You  shut  up !    Go  in  the  house ! "  he  ordered. 

"  You  insult  me,"  she  replied,  in  bitter  humiliatkm0 

"Will  you  go  in?"  he  shouted. 

6i  No,  I  won't." 

116 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"All  right,  look  on,  then.  I'd  just  as  lief  have  you." 
Then  he  turned  to  the  cowboy.  "  Moore,  show  up  that 
wagon-load  of  stuff  unless  you  want  me  to  throw  it  out 
in  the  road." 

"Belllounds,  you  know  I  can't  do  that,"  replied  Moore, 
coldly.  "And  I'll  give  you  a  hunch.  You'd  better  shut 
up  yourself  and  let  me  drive  on.  ...  If  not  for  her  sake, 
then  for  your  own." 

Belllounds  grasped  the  reins,  and  with  a  sudden  jerk 
pulled  them  out  of  the  cowboy's  hands. 

"You  damn  club-foot!  Your  gift  of  gab  doesn't  go 
with  me,"  yelled  Belllounds,  as  he  swung  up  on  the  hub 
of  the  wheel.  But  it  was  manifest  that  his  desire  to 
search  the  wagon  was  only  a  pretense,  for  while  he  pulled 
at  this  and  that  his  evil  gaze  was  on  the  cowboy,  keen  to 
meet  any  move  that  might  give  excuse  for  violence. 
Moore  evidently  read  this,  for,  gazing  at  Columbine,  he 
shook  his  head,  as  if  to  acquaint  her  with  a  situation 
impossible  to  help. 

"Columbine,  please  hand  me  up  the  reins,"  he  said. 
"I'm  lame,  you  know.  Then  I'll  be  going." 

Columbine  stepped  forward  to  comply,  when  Bell 
lounds,  leaping  down  from  the  wheel,  pushed  her  back 
with  masterful  hand.  Opposition  to  him  was  like  waving 
a  red  flag  in  the  face  of  a  bull.  Columbine  recoiled  from 
his  look  as  well  as  touch. 

"You  keep  out  of  this  or  I'll  teach  you  who's  boss  here," 
lie  said,  stridently. 

"You're  going  too  far!"  burst  out  Columbine. 

Meanwhile  Wilson  had  laboriously  climbed  down  out 
of  the  wagon,  and,  utilizing  his  crutch,  he  hobbled  to 
where  Belllounds  had  thrown  the  reins,  and  stooped  to 
pick  them  up.    Belllounds  shoved  Columbine  farther    •* .* '\ 
and  then  he  leaped  to  confront  the  cowboy  0 

117 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

04 I've  got  you  now,  Moore,"  he  said,  hoarse  and  low. 
Stripped  of  all  pretense,  he  showed  the  ungovernable 
nature  of  his  temper.  His  face  grew  corded  and  black. 
The  hand  he  thrust  out  shook  like  a  leaf.  "You  smooth 
tongued  liar!  I'm  on  to  your  game.  I  know  you'd  put 
her  against  me.  I  know  you'd  try  to  win  her — less  than 
a  week  before  her  wedding-day.  .  .  .  But  it's  not  for  that 
I'm  going  to  beat  hell  out  of  you!  It's  because  I  hate 
you !  Ever  since  I  can  remember  my  father  held  you  up 
to  me !  And  he  sent  me  to — to — he  sent  me  away  because 
of  you.  By  God !  that's  why  I  hate  you ! ' ' 

All  that  was  primitive  and  violent  and  base  came  out 
with  strange  frankness  in  Belllounds's  tirade.  Only  when 
calm  could  his  mind  be  capable  of  hidden  calculation. 
The  devil  that  was  in  him  now  seemed  rampant. 

"Belllounds,  you're  mighty  brave  to  stack  up  this  way 
against  a  one-legged  man,"  declared  the  cowboy,  with 
biting  sarcasm. 

"If  you  had  two  club-feet  I'd  only  be  the  gladder," 
yelled  Belllounds,  and,  swinging  his  arm,  he  slapped 
Moore  so  that  it  neartv  toppled  him  over.  Only  the  in 
jured  foot,  coming  down  hard,  saved  him.  i 

When  Columbine  saw  that,  and  then  how  Wilson  winced 
and  grew  deathly  pale,  she  uttered  a  low  cry,  and  she 
seemed  suddenly  rooted  to  the  spot,  weak,  terrified  at 
what  was  now  inevitable,  and  growing  sick  and  cold  and 
faint. 

"It's  a  damn  lucky  thing  for  you  I'm  not  packing  a 
gun,"  said  Moore,  grimly.  "But  you  knew — or  you'd 
aever  hit  me — you  coward." 

"  I'll  make  you  swallow  that,"  snarled  Belllounds,  and 
this  time  he  swung  his  fist,  aiming  a  heavy  blow  at  Moore. 

Then  the  cowboy  whirled  aloft  the  heavy  crutch.  "If 
hit  at  me  again  I'll  let  out  what  little  brains  you've 
118 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

got.  God  knows  that's  little  enough ! .  .  .  Belllounds,  I'm 
going  to  call  you  to  your  face — before  this  girl  your  bat- 
eyed  old  man  means  to  give  you.  You're  not  drunkc 
You're  only  ugly — mean.  You've  got  a  chance  now  to 
lick  me  because  I'm  crippled.  And  you're  going  to  make 
the  most  of  it.  Why,  you  cur,  I  could  come  near  licking 
you  with  only  one  leg.  But  if  you  touch  me  again  I'll 
brain  you!  .  .  .  You  never  were  any  good.  You're  no 
good  now.  You  never  will  be  anything  but  Buster  Jack 
— half  dotty,  selfish  as  hell,  bull-headed  and  mean!  .  .  . 
And  that's  the  last  word  I'll  ever  waste  on  you." 

"I'll  kill  you!"  bawled  Belllounds,  black  with  fury. 

Moore  wielded  the  crutch  menacingly,  but  as  he  was 
not  steady  on  his  feet  he  was  at  the  disadvantage  his 
adversary  had  calculated  upon.  Belllounds  ran  around 
the  cowboy,  and  suddenly  plunged  in  to  grapple  with  him. 
The  crutch  descended,  but  to  little  purpose.  Belllounds's 
neavy  onslaught  threw  Moore  to  the  ground.  Before  he 
could  rise  Belllounds  pounced  upon  him. 

Columbine  saw  all  this  dazedly.  As  Wilson  fell  she 
closed  her  eyes,  fighting  a  faintness  that  almost  overcame 
her.  She  heard  wrestling,  threshing  sounds,  and  sodden 
thumps,  and  a  scattering  of  gravel.  These  noises  seemed 
at  first  distant,  then  grew  closer.  As  she  gazed  again 
with  keener  perception,  Moore's  horse  plunged  away  from 
the  fiercely  struggling  forms  that  had  rolled  almost  under 
his  feet.  During  the  ensuing  moments  it  was  an  equal 
battle  so  far  as  Columbine  could  tell.  Repelled,  yet  fas 
cinated,  she  watched.  They  beat  each  other,  grappled 
and  rolled  over,  first  one  on  top,  then  the  other.  But  the 
advantage  of  being  uppermost  presently  was  Belllounds's 
Moore  was  weakening.  That  became  noticeable  more 
and  more  after  each  time  he  had  wrestled  and  rolled  about 
Then  Belllounds,  getting  this  position,  lay  with  his  weigh* 

no 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

upon  Moore,  holding  him  down,  and  at  the  same  time 
kicking  with  all  his  might.  He  was  aiming  to  disable  the 
cowboy  by  kicking  the  injured  foot.  And  he  was  suc 
ceeding.  Moore  let  out  a  strangled  cry,  and  struggled 
desperately.  But  he  was  held  and  weighted  down.  Bell- 
lounds  raised  up  now  and,  looking  backward,  he  deliber 
ately  and  furiously  kicked  Moore's  bandaged  foot;  once, 
twice,  again  and  again,  until  the  straining  form  under  him 
grew  limp.  Columbine,  slowly  freezing  with  horror,  saw 
all  this.  She  could  not  move.  She  could  not  scream. 
She  wanted  to  rush  in  and  drag  Jack  off  of  Wilson,  to  hurt 
him,  to  kill  him,  but  her  muscles  were  paralyzed.  In  her 
agony  she  could  not  even  look  away.  Belllounds  got  up 
astride  his  prostrate  adversary  and  began  to  beat  him 
brutally,  swinging  heavy,  sodden  blows.  His  face  then 
was  terrible  to  see.  He  meant  murder. 

Columbine  heard  approaching  voices  and  the  thumping 
of  hasty  feet.  That  undamped  her  cloven  tongue. 
Wildly  she  screamed.  Old  Bill  Belllounds  appeared, 
striding  off  the  porch.  And  the  hunter  Wade  came  run 
ning  down  the  path. 

"Dad!  he's  killing  Wilson!"  cried  Columbine. 

"Hyar,  you  devil!"  roared  the  rancher. 

Jack  Belllounds  got  up.  Panting,  disheveled,  with 
hair  ruffled  and  face  distorted,  he  was  not  a  pleasant  sight 
for  even  the  father.  Moore  lay  unconscious,  with  ghastly, 
bloody  features,  and  his  bandaged  foot  showed  great 
splotches  of  red. 

"My  Gawd,  son!"  gasped  Old  Bill.  "You  didn't  pick 
on  this  hyar  crippled  boy  ? " 

The  evidence  was  plain,  in  Moore's  quiet,  pathetic 
form,  in  the  panting,  purple-faced  son.  Jack  Belllounds 
did  not  answer.  He  was  in  the  grip  of  a  passion  that 
had  at  last  been  wholly  unleashed  arid  was  still  un- 

120 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

satisfied.  Yet  a  malignant  and  exultant  gratification 
showed  in  his  face. 

"That — evens  us — up,  Moore,"  he  panted,  and  stalked 
away. 

By  this  time  Wade  reached  the  cowboy  and  knelt  beside 
him.  Columbine  came  running  to  fall  on  her  knees. 
The  old  rancher  seemed  stricken. 

"Oh—  Oh!  it  was  terrible— "  cried  Columbine.  "Oh 
— he's  so  white — and  the  blood — " 

"Now,  lass,  that's  no  way  for  a  woman,"  said  Wade, 
and  there  was  something  in  his  kind  tone,  in  his  look,  in 
his  presence,  that  calmed  Columbine.  "I'll  look  after 
Moore.  You  go  get  some  water  an'  a  towel." 

Columbine  rose  to  totter  into  the  house.  She  saw  a 
red  stain  on  the  hand  she  had  laid  upon  the  cowboy's  face, 
and  with  a  strange,  hot,  bursting  sensation,  strong  and 
thrilling,  she  put  that  red  place  to  her  lips.  Running  out 
with  the  things  required  by  Wade,  she  was  in  time  to  hear 
the  rancher  say,  "Looks  hurt  bad,  to  me." 

"Yes,  I  reckon,"  replied  Wade. 

While  Columbine  held  Moore's  head  upon  her  lap  the 
hunter  bathed  the  bloody  face.  It  was  battered  and 
bruised  and  cut,  and  in  some  places,  as  fast  as  Wade 
washed  away  the  red,  it  welled  out  again. 

Columbine  watched  that  quiet  face,  while  her  heart 
throbbed  and  swelled  with  emotions  wholly  beyond  her 
control  and  understanding.  When  at  last  Wilson  opened 
his  eyes,  fluttering  at  first,  and  then  wide,  she  felt  a  surge 
that  shook  her  whole  body.  He  smiled  wanly  at  her,  and 
at  Wade,  and  then  his  gaze  lifted  to  Belllounds. 

"I  guess — he  licked  me,"  he  said,  in  weak  voice.  "He 
kept  kicking  my  sore  foot — till  I  fainted.  But  he  licked 
me— all  right." 

"  Wils,  mebbe  he  did  lick  you,"  replied  the  old  rancherc 

®  121 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

brokenly,  "but  I  reckon  he's  damn  little  to  be  proud  o* 
— lickin'  a  crippled  man — thet  way." 

"Boss,  Jack  'd  been  drinking,"  said  Moore,  weakly. 
"And  he  sure  had — some  excuse  for  going  off  H<?  head. 
He  caught  me — talking  sweet  to  Columbine  .  .  .  and  then 
— I  called  him  all  the  names — I  could  lay  my  tongue  to." 

"  Ahuh ! "  The  old  man  seemed  at  a  loss  for  words,  and 
presently  he  turned  away,  sagging  in  the  shoulders,  and 
plodded  into  the  house. 

The  cowboy,  supported  by  Wade  on  one  side,  with 
Columbine  on  the  other,  was  helped  to  an  upright  posi 
tion,  and  with  considerable  difficulty  was  gotten  into  the 
wagon.  He  tried  to  sit  up,  but  made  a  sorry  showing 
of  it. 

"I'll  drive  him  home  an*  look  after  him,"  said  Wade. 
"'Now,  Miss  Collie,  you're  upset,  which  ain't  no  wonder. 
But  now  you  brace.  It  might  have  been  worse.  Just 
you  go  to  your  room  till  you're  sure  of  yourself  again." 

Moore  smiled  another  wan  smile  at  her.  "I'm  sorry," 
he  said. 

" What  for?    Me? "  she  asked. 

"I  mean  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  infernal  unlucky — running 
into  you — and  bringing  all  this  distress — to  you.  It  was 
my  fault.  If  I'd  only  kept — my  mouth  shut!" 

"You  need  not  be  sorry  you  met  me,"  she  said,  with 
her  eyes  straight  upon  his.  "I'm  glad.  .  .  .  But  oh!  it 
your  foot  is  badly  hurt  I'll  never — never — '" 

"Don't  say  it,"  interrupted  Wilson. 

"Lass,  you're  bent  on  doin'  somethin',"  said  Wade,  in 
his  gentle  voice. 

"Bent?"  she  echoed,  with  something  deep  and  rich  in 
her  voice.  "Yes,  I'm  bent — bent  like  your  name — to 
speak  my  mind!" 

Then  she  ran  toward  the  house  and  up  on  the  porch, 

\22 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

to  enter  the  living-room  with  heaving  breast  and  flashing 
eyes.  Manifestly  the  rancher  was  berating  his  son.  The 
former  gaped  at  sight  of  her  and  the  latter  shrank. 

"Jack  Belllounds,"  she  cried,  "you're  not  half  a  man. 
.  .  .  You're  a  coward  and  a  brute!" 

One  tense  moment  she  stood  there,  lightning  scorn  and 
passion  in  her  gaze,  and  then  she  rushed  out,  impetuouslyc 
as  she  had  come. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

/COLUMBINE  did  not  leave  her  room  any  more  that 
^^  day.  What  she  suffered  there  she  did  not  want 
any  one  to  know.  What  it  cost  her  to  conquer  herself 
again  she  had  only  a  faint  conception  of.  She  did  con 
quer,  however,  and  that  night  made  up  the  sleep  she  had 
lost  the  night  before. 

Strangely  enough,  she  did  not  feel  afraid  to  face  the 
rancher  and  his  son.  Recent  happenings  had  not  only 
changed  her,  but  had  seemed  to  give  her  strength.  When 
she  presented  herself  at  the  breakfast-table  Jack  was 
absent.  The  old  rancher  greeted  her  with  more  than 
usual  solicitude. 

"Jack's  sick,"  he  remarked,  presently. 

"Indeed,"  replied  Columbine. 

"Yes.  He  said  it  was  the  drinkin'  he's  not  accustomed 
to.  Wai,  I  reckon  it  was  what  you  called  him.  He  didn't 
take  much  store  on  what  I  called  him,  which  was  wuss. 
...  I  tell  you,  lass,  Jack's  set  his  heart  so  hard  on  you  thet 
it's  tumble." 

"  Queer  way  he  has  ot  showing  the — the  affections  of  his 
heart,"  replied  Columbine,  shortly. 

"Thet  was  the  drink,"  remonstrated  the  old  man, 
pathetic  and  earnest  in  his  motive  to  smooth  over  the 
quarrel. 

"  But  he  promised  me  he  would  not  drink  any  more." 

Belllounds  shook  his  gray  old  head  sadly. 

"Ahuh!  Jack  fires  up  an'  promises  anythin'.  He 

124 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

means  it  at  the  time.  But  the  next  hankerin'  thet  comes 
over  him  wipes  out  the  promise.  I  know.  .  .  .  But  he's 
had  good  excuse  fer  this  break.  The  boys  in  town  began 
celebratin'  fer  October  first.  Great  wonder  Jack  didn't 
come  home  clean  drunk." 

"  Dad,  you're  as  good  as  gold,"  said  Columbine,  soften 
ing.  How  could  she  feel  hard  toward  him? 

"Collie,  then  you're  not  agoin'  back  on  the  ole  man?" 

"No." 

"I  was  afeared  you'd  change  your  mind  about  marryin* 
Jack." 

"When  I  promised  I  meant  it.  I  didn't  make  it  on 
conditions." 

"But,  lass,  promises  can  be  broke,"  he  said,  with  the 
sonorous  roll  in  his  voice. 

"I  never  yet  broke  one  of  mine." 

"Wai,  I  hev.  Not  often,  mebbe,  but  I  hev.  .  .  .  An'; 
lass,  it's  reasonable.  Thar's  times  when  a  man  jest  can't 
live  up  to  what  he  swore  by.  An'  fer  a  girl — why,  I  can 
see  how  easy  she'd  change  an'  grow  overnight.  It's  only 
fair  fer  me  to  say  that  no  matter  what  you  think  you  owe 
me  you  couldn't  be  blamed  now  fer  dislikin'  Jack." 

"  Dad,  if  by  marrying  Jack  I  can  help  him  to  be  a  better 
son  to  you,  and  more  of  a  man,  I'll  be  glad,"  she  replied. 

"Lass,  I'm  beginnin'  to  see  how  big  an'  fine  you  are," 
replied  Belllounds,  with  strong  feeling.  "An'  it's  worryin' 
•me.  .  .  .  My  neighbors  hev  always  accused  me  of  seein' 
only  my  son.  Only  Buster  Jack!  I  was  blind  an'  deaf 
as  to  him! .  .  .  Wai,  I'm  not  so  damn  blind  as  I  used  to  be. 
The  scales  are  droppin*  off  my  ole  eyes.  .  .  .  But  I've  got 
one  hope  left  as  far  as  Jack's  concerned.  Thet's  marryin' 
him  to  you.  An'  I'm  stickin'  to  it." 

"So  will  I  stick  to  it,  dad,"  she  replied.  "I'll  go 
through  with  October  first!" 

125 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Columbine  broke  off,  vouchsafing  no  more,  and  soon 
left  the  breakfast-table,  to  take  up  the  work  she  had  laid 
out  to  do.  And  she  accomplished  it,  though  many  times 
her  hands  dropped  idle  and  her  eyes  peered  out  of  her 
window  at  the  drab  slides  of  the  old  mountain. 

Later,  when  she  went  out  to  ride,  she  saw  the  cowboy 
Lem  working  in  the  blacksmith  shop. 

"Wai,  Miss  Collie,  air  you-all  still  hangin'  round  this 
hyar  ranch?"  he  asked,  with  welcoming  smile. 

"  Lem,  I'm  almost  ashamed  now  to  face  my  good  friends, 
I've  neglected  them  so  long,"  she  replied. 

"Aw,  now,  what  're  friends  fer  but  to  go  to? ...  You're 
lookin'  pale,  I  reckon.  More  like  thet  thar  flower  I  see 
so  much  on  the  hills." 

"Lem,  1  want  to  ride  Pronto.  Do  you  think  he's  all 
right,  now?" 

"I  reckon  some  movin'  round  will  do  Pronto  good. 
He's  eatin'  his  haid  off." 

The  cowboy  went  with  her  to  the  pasture  gate  and 
whistled  Pronto  up.  The  mustang  came  trotting,  evi 
dently  none  the  worse  for  his  injuries,  and  eager  to  resume 
the  old  climbs  with  his  mistress.  Lem  saddled  him,  pay 
ing  particular  attention  to  the  cinch. 

"  Reckon  we'd  better  not  cinch  him  tight,"  said 
Lem.  "You  jest  be  careful  an'  remember  ycur  saddle's 
loose." 

"All  right,  Lem,"  replied  Columbine,  as  she  mounted. 
"Where  are  the  boys  this  morning r" 

"Blud  an'  Jim  air  repairin'  fence  up  the  crick." 

"And  where's  Ben?" 

"Ben?  Oh,  you  mean  Wade.  Wai,  I  'ain't  seen  him 
since  yestidday.  He  was  skinnin'  a  lion  then,  over  hyar 
on  the  ridge.  Thet  was  in  the  mawnin'.  I  reckon  he's 
around,  fer  I  seen  some  of  the  hounds." 

126 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

8'Then,  Lem — you  haven't  heard  about  the  fight  yes 
terday  between  Jack  and  Wilson  Moore?" 

Lem  straightened  up  quickly.  "Nope,  I  'ain't  heerd 
a  word." 

"Well,  they  fought,  all  right,"  said  Columbine,  hur 
riedly.  "I  saw  it.  I  was  the  only  one  there.  Wilson 
was  badly  used  up  before  dad  and  Ben  got  there.  Ben 
drove  off  with  him." 

"But,  Miss  Collie,  how'd  it  come  off?  I  seen  Wils  the 
other  day.  Was  up  to  his  homestead.  An'  the  boy  jest 
manages  to  rustle  round  on  a  crutch.  Ke  couldn't  fight.'9 

"That  was  just  it.  Jack  saw  his  opportunity,  and  he 
forced  Wilson  to  fight — accused  him  of  stealing.  Wils 
tried  to  avoid  trouble.  Then  Jack  jumped  him.  Wilson 
fought  and  held  his  own  until  Jack  began  to  kick  his  in 
jured  foot.  Then  Wilson  fainted  and — and  Jack  beat 
him." 

Lem  dropped  his  head,  evidently  to  hide  his  expression^ 
"  Wai,  dog-gone  me ! "  he  ejaculated.  " Thet's  too  bad." 

Columbine  left  the  cowboy  and  rode  up  the  lane  toward 
Wade's  cabin.  She  did  not  analyze  her  deliberate  desire 
to  tell  the  truth  about  that  fight,  but  she  would  have  liked 
to  proclaim  it  to  the  whole  range  and  to  the  world.  Once 
clear  of  the  house  she  felt  free,  unburdened,  and  to  tall* 
seemed  to  relieve  some  congestion  of  her  thoughts. 

The  hounds  heralded  Columbine's  approach  with  a 
deep  and  booming  chorus.  Sampson  and  Jim  lay  upon 
the  porch,  unleashed.  The  other  hounds  were  chained 
separately  in  the  aspen  grove  a  few  rods  distant.  Samp 
son  thumped  the  boards  with  his  big  tail,  but  he  did  not 
get  up,  which  laziness  attested  to  the  fact  that  there  had 
been  a  lion  chase  the  day  before  and  he  was  weary  and 
stiff.  If  Wade  had  been  at  home  he  would  have  come 
out  to  see  what  had  occasioned  the  clamor.  As  Colum= 

12* 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

bine  rode  by  she  saw  another  fresh  lion-pelt  pegged 

upon  the  wall  of  the  cabin. 

She  followed  the  brook.  It  had  cleared  since  the  rains 
and  was  shining  and  sparkling  in  the  rough,  swift  places, 
and  limpid  and  green  in  the  eddies.  She  passed  the  dam 
made  by  the  solitary  beaver  that  inhabited  the  valley. 
Freshly  cut  willows  showed  how  the  beaver  was  preparing 
for  the  long  winter  ahead.  Columbine  remembered  then 
how  greatly  pleased  Wade  had  been  to  learn  about  this 
old  beaver;  and  more  than  once  Wade  had  talked  about 
trapping  some  younger  beavers  and  bringing  them  there 
to  make  company  for  the  old  fellow. 

The  trail  led  across  the  brook  at  a  wide,  shallow  place,1' 
where  the  splashing  made  by  Pronto  sent  the  trout 
scurrying  for  deeper  water.  Columbine  kept  to  that  trail, 
knowing  that  it  led  up  into  Sage  Valley,  where  Wilson 
Moore  had  taken  up  the  homestead  property.  Fresh1 
horse  tracks  told  her  that  Wade  had  ridden  along  there 
some  time  earlier.  Pronto  shied  at  the  whirring  of  sage- 
hens.  Presently  Columbine  ascertained  they  were  flushed 
by  the  hound  Kane,  that  had  broken  loose  and  followed 
her.  He  had  done  so  before,  and  the  iact  had  not  dis 
pleased  her. 

* '  Kane !  Kane !  come  here ! ' '  she  called.  He  came  readily, 
but  halted  a  rod  or  so  away,  and  made  an  attempt  at 
wagging  his  tail,  a  function  evidently  somewhat  difficult 
for  him.  When  she  resumed  trotting  he  followed  her. 

Old  White  Slides  had  lost  all  but  the  drabs  and  dull 
yellows  and  greens,  and  of  course  those  pale,  light  slopes 
that  had  given  the  mountain  its  name.  Sage  Valley  was 
only  one  of  the  valleys  at  its  base.  It  opened  out  half  a 
mile  wide,  dominated  by  the  looming  peak,  and  bordered ; 
on  the  far  side  by  an  aspen-thicketed  slope.  The  brook 
babbled  along  under  the  edge  of  this  thicket.  Cattle 

128 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  horses  grazed  here  and  there  on  the  rich,  grassy  levels. 
Columbine  was  surprised  to  see  so  many  cattle  and  won* 
dered  to  whom  they  belonged.  All  of  Belllounds's  stock 
had  been  driven  lower  down  for  the  winter.  There  among 
the  several  horses  that  whistled  at  her  approach  she  espied 
the  white  mustang  Belllounds  had  given  to  Moore.  It 
thrilled  her  to  see  him.  And  next,  she  suffered  a  pang  to 
think  that  perhaps  his  owner  might  never  ride  him  again. 
But  Columbine  held  her  emotions  in  abeyance. 

The  cabin  stood  high  upon  a  level  terrace,  with  clusters 
of  aspens  behind  it,  and  was  sheltered  from  winter  blasts 
by  a  gray  cliff,  picturesque  and  crumbling,  with  its  face 
overgrown  by  creeping  vines  and  colorful  shrubst  Wilson 
Moore  could  not  have  chosen  a  more  secluded  and  beau 
tiful  valley  for  his  uomestcadinn  adventure.  The  little 
gray  cabin,  with  smoke  curling  from  the  stone  chimney, 
had  lost  its  look  of  dilapidation  and  disuse,  yet  there  was 
nothing  new  that  Columbine  could  see.  The  last  quarter 
of  the  ascent  of  the  slope,  and  the  few  rods  across  the  level 
terrace,  seemed  extraordinarily  long  to  Columbine.  As 
she  dismounted  and  tied  Pronto  her  heart  was  beating 
and  her  breath  was  coming  fast. 

The  door  of  the  cabin  was  open.  Kane  trotted  past  the 
hesitating  Columbine  and  went  in. 

"You  son-of-a-hound-dog ! "  came  to  Columbine's  lis 
tening  ears  in  Wade's  well-known  voice.  "I'll  have  to 
beat  you — sure  as  you're  born." 

"I  heard  a  horse,"  came  in  a  lower  voice,  that  was 
Wilson's. 

"  Darn  me  if  I'm.  not  gettin'  deafer  every  day,"  was  the 
reply. 

Then  Wade  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"It's  nobody  but  Miss  Collie,"  he  announced,  as  he 
made  way  for  her  to  enter. 

129 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Good  morning!"  said  Columbine,  in  a  voice  that  had 
more  than  cheerfulness  in  it. 

"Collie!  .  .  .  Did  you  come  to  see  me?" 

She  heard  this  incredulous  query  just  an  instant  before 
she  saw  Wilson  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  lying  undei 
the  light  of  a  window.  The  inside  of  the  cabin  seemed 
vague  and  unfamiliar. 

"I  surely  did,"  she  replied,  advancing.  "How  are 
you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right.  Tickled  to  death,  right  now.  .  .  . 
Only,  I  hate  to  have  you  see  this  battered  mug  of  mine." 

"You  needn't — care,"  said  Columbine,  unsteadily. 
And  indeed,  in  that  first  glance  she  did  not  see  him 
clearly.  A  mist  blurred  her  sight,  and  there  was  a  lump 
in  her  throat.  Then,  to  recover  herself,  she  looked  around 
the  cabin. 

"  Well— Wils  Moore— if  this  isn't  fine!"  she  ejaculated, 
in  amaze  and  delight.  Columbine  sustained  an  absolute 
surprise.  A  magic  hand  had  transformed  the  interior  of 
that  rude  old  prospector's  abode.  A  carpenter  and  a 
mason  and  a  decorator  had  been  wonderfully  at  work. 
From  one  end  to  the  other  Columbine  gazed;  from  the 
big  window  under  which  Wilson  lay  on  a  blanketed  couch 
1x>  the  open  fireplace  where  Wade  grinned  she  looked  and 
looked,  and  then  up  to  the  clean,  aspen-poled  roof  and 
down  to  the  floor,  carpeted  with  deer  hides.  The  chinks 
between  th->  logs  of  the  walls  were  plastered  with  red  clay; 
the  dust  and  dirt  were  gone;  the  place  smelled  like  sage 
and  wood-smoke  and  fragrant,  frying  meat.  Indeed,  there 
were  a  glowing  bed  of  embers  and  a  steaming  kettle  and 
a  smoking  pot;  and  the  way  the  smoke  and  steam  curled 
up  into  the  gray  old  chimney  attested  to  its  splendid 
draught.  In  each  corner  hung  a  deer-head,  from  the 
antlers  of  which  depended  accoutrements  of  a  cowboy—3 

730 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

spurs,  ropes,  belts,  scarfs,  guns.    One  corner  contained 
cupboard,  ceiling  high,  with  new,  clean  doors  of  wood, , 
neatly  made;  and  next  to  it  stood  a  table,  just  as  new0 
On  the  blank  wall  beyond  that  were  pegs  holding  saddles, 
bridles,  blankets,  clothes. 

"He  did  it — all  this  inside,"  burst  out  Moore,  delighted 
with  her  delight.  "Quicker  than  a  flash!  Collie,  isn't 
this  great?  I  don't  mind  being  down  on  my  back.  .  .  « 
And  he  says  they  call  him  Hell-Bent  Wade.  I  call  him 
Heaven-Sent  Wade! " 

When  Columbine  turned  to  the  hunter,  bursting  with 
her  pleasure  and  gratitude,  he  suddenly  dropped  the 
forked  stick  he  used  as  a  lift,  and  she  saw  his  hand  shake 
when  he  stooped  to  recover  it.  How  strangely  that 
struck  her! 

"Ben,  it's  perfectly  possible  that  you've  been  sent  by 
Heaven,"  she  remarked,  with  a  humor  which  still  held 
grav  ity  in  it. 

"Me!  A  good  angel?  That  fd  be  a  new  job  for  Bent 
Wade,"  he  replied,  with  a  queer  laugh.  "But  I  reckon 
I'd  try  to  live  up  to  it." 

There  were  small  sprigs  of  golden  aspen  leaves  and 
crimson  oak  leaves  on  the  wall  above  the  foot  of  Wilson's 
bed.  Beneath  them,  on  pegs,  hung  a  rifle.  And  on  the 
window-sill  stood  a  glass  jar  containing  columbines. 
They  were  fresh.  They  had  just  been  picked.  They, 
waved  gently  in  the  breeze,  sweetly  white  and  blue, 
strangely  significant  to  the  girl. 

Moore  laughed  defiantly. 

"  Wade  thought  to  fetch  these  flowers  in,"  he  explained, 
34  They 're  his  favorites  as  well  as  mine.  It  won't  be  long 
now  till  the  £rost  kills  them  .  .  .  and  I  want  to  be  happy 
while  I  may!" 

Again  Columbine  felt  that  deep  surge  within  her,  be- 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

yond  her  control,  beyond  her  understanding,  but  now 
gathering  and  swelling,  soon  to  be  reckoned  with.  She 
did  not  look  at  Wilson's  face  then.  Her  downcast  gaze 
saw  that  his  right  hand  was  bandaged,  and  she  touched 
it  with  an  unconscious  tenderness. 

' '  Your  hand !    Why  is  it  all  wrapped  up  ?  " 

The  cowboy  laughed  with  grim  humor. 

"Have  you  seen  Jack  this  morning?" 

"No,"  she  replied,  shortly. 

"Well,  if  you  had,  you'd  know  what  happened  to  my 
fist." 

"Did  you  hurt  it  on  him?"  she  asked,  with  a  queer 
Httle  shudder  that  was  not  unpleasant. 

"Collie,  I  busted  that  fist  on  his  handsome  face." 

"Oh,  it  was  dreadful!"  she  murmured.  "Wilson,  he 
meant  to  kill  you." 

"Sure.     And  I'd  cheerfully  have  killed  him." 

"You  two  must  never  meet  again,"  she  went  on. 

"I  hope  to  Heaven  we  never  do,"  replied  Moore,  with 
a  dark  earnestness  that  meant  more  than  his  actual 
words. 

"Wilson,  will  you  avoid  him — for  my  sake?"  implored 
Columbine,  unconsciously  clasping  the  bandaged  hand. 

"I  will.  I'll  take  the  back  trails.  I'll  sneak  like  a 
coyote.  I'll  hide  and  I'll  watch.  .  ,  .  But,  Columbine 
Belllounds,  if  he  ever  corners  me  again — " 

"Why,  you'll  leave  him  to  Hell-Bent  Wade,"  inter 
rupted  the  hunter,  and  he  looked  up  from  where  he  knelt, 
fixing  those  great,  inscrutable  eyes  upon  the  cowboy. 
Columbine  saw  something  beyond  his  face,  deeper  than 
the  gloom,  a  passion  and  a  spirit  that  drew  her  like  a 
magnet.  "An'  now,  Miss  Collie,"  he  went  on,  "I  reckon 
you'll  want  to  wait  on  our  invalid.  He's  got  to  be  fed." 

"I  surely  will,"  replied  Columbine,  gladly,  and  she 

1*2 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

«at  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "Ben,  you  fetch  that 
box  and  put  his  dinner  on  it." 

While  Wade  complied,  Columbine,  shyly  aware  of  her 
nearness  to  the  cowboy,  sought  to  keep  up  conversation. 

"Couldn't  you  help  yourself  with  your  left  hand?"  she 
inquired. 

"That's  one  worse,"  he  answered,  taking  it  from  under 
the  blanket,  where  it  had  been  concealed. 

"Oh!"  cried  Columbine,  in  dismay. 

"Broke  two  bones  in  this  one,"  said  Wilson,  with 
animation.  "Say,  Collie,  our  friend  Wade  is  a  doctor, 
too.  Never  saw  his  beat ! " 

"And  a  cook,  too,  for  here's  your  dinner.  You  must 
sit  up,"  ordered  Columbine. 

"Fold  that  blanket  and  help  me  up  on  it,"  replied 
Moore. 

How  strange  and  disturbing  for  Columbine  to  bend  over 
him,  to  slip  her  arms  under  him  and  lift  him !  It  recalled 
a  long-forgotten  motherliness  of  her  doll-playing  days. 
And  her  face  flushed  hot. 

"Can't  you  move?"  she  asked,  suddenly  becoming 
aware  of  how  dead  a  weight  the  cowboy  appeared. 

"Not — very  much,"  he  replied.  Drops  of  sweat  ap 
peared  on  his  bruised  brow.  It  must  have  hurt  him  to 
move. 

"You  said  your  foot  was  all  right." 

"It  is,"  he  returned.  "It's  still  on  my  leg,  as  I  know 
darned  well." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Columbine,  dubiously.  Without 
further  comment  she  began  to  feed  him. 

"It's  worth  getting  licked  to  have  this  treat,"  he  said. 

"Nonsense!"  she  rejoined. 

"I'd  stand  it  again — to  have  you  come  here  and  feed 
me.  .  o  .  But  not  from  him." 

2*3 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wilson,  I  never  knew  you  to  be  facetious  before. 
Here,  take  this." 

Apparently  he  did  not  see  her  outstretched  hand. 

"Collie,  you've  changed.  You're  older.  You're  a 
woman,  now — and  the  prettiest — " 

"Are  you  going  to  eat?"  demanded  Columbine. 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  the  cowboy,  blankly.  "Eat?  Ofc 
yes,  sure.  I'm  powerful  hungry.  And  maybe  Heaven- 
Sent  Wade  can't  cook!" 

But  Columbine  had  trouble  in  feeding  him.  What 
with  his  helplessness,  and  his  propensity  to  watch  her  face 
instead  of  her  hands,  and  her  own  mounting  sensations  of 
a  sweet,  natural  joy  and  fitness  in  her  proximity  to  himf 
she  was  hard  put  to  it  to  show  some  dexterity  as  a  nurse. 
And  all  the  time  she  was  aware  of  Wade,  with  his  quiet, 
forceful  presence,  hovering  near.  Could  he  not  see  her 
hands  trembling?  And  would  he  not  think  that  weak 
ness  strange?  Then  driftingly  came  the  thought  that  she 
would  not  shrink  from  Wade's  reading  her  mind.  Perhaps 
even  now  he  understood  her  better  than  she  understood 
herself. 

"I  can't — eat  any  more,"  declared  Moore,  at  last. 

"You've  done  very  well  for  an  invalid,"  observed 
Columbine.  Then,  changing  the  subject,  she  asked, 
"Wilson,  you're  going  to  stay  here — winter  here,  dad 
would  call  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  those  your  cattle  down  in  the  valley?" 

"Sure.  I've  got  near  a  hundred  head.  I  saved  my 
money  and  bought  cattle." 

"That's  a  good  start  for  you.  I'm  glad.  But  who's 
going  to  take  care  of  you  and  your  stock  until  you  can 
work  again?" 

"Why,  my  friend  there,  Heaven-Sent  Wade,"  replied 

334 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Moore,  indicating  the  little  man  busy  with  the  utensils 
on  the  table,  and  apparently  hearing  nothing. 

"Can  I  fetch  you  anything  to  eat — or  read?"  she  in 
quired. 

"Fetch  yourself,"  he  replied,  softly. 

"But,  boy,  how  could  I  fetch  you  anything  without 
fetching  myself?" 

"Sure,  that's  right.  Then  fetch  me  some  jam  and  a 
book — to-morrow.  Will  you  ? ' ' 

"I  surely  will." 

"  That's  a  promise.     I  know  your  promises  of  old." 

"Then  good-by  till  to-morrow.  I  must  go.  I  hope 
you'll  be  better." 

"I'll  stay  sick  in  bed  till  you  stop  coming." 

Columbine  left  rather  precipitously,  and  when  she  got 
outdoors  it  seemed  that  the  hills  had  never  been  so  softly, 
dreamily  gray,  nor  their  loneliness  so  sweet,  nor  the  sky 
so  richly  and  deeply  blue.  As  she  untied  Pronto  the 
hunter  came  out  with  Kane  at  his  heels. 

"Miss  Collie,  if  you'll  go  easy  I'll  ketch  my  horse  an* 
ride  down  with  you,"  he  said. 

She  mounted,  and  walked  Pronto  out  to  the  trail,  and 
slowly  faced  the  gradual  descent.  It  was  really  higher  up 
there  than  she  had  surmised.  And  the  view  was  beauti 
ful.  The  gray,  rolling  foothills,  so  exquisitely  colored  at 
that  hour,  and  the  black-fringed  ranges,  one  above  the 
other,  and  the  distant  peaks,  sunset-flushed  across  the 
purple,  all  rose  open  and  clear  to  her  sight,  so  wildly  and 
splendidly  expressive  of  the  Colorado  she  loved. 

At  the  foot  of  the  slope  Wade  joined  her. 

"Lass,  I'm  askin'  you  not  to  tell  Belllounds  that  I'm 
carin'  for  Wils,"  he  said,  in  his  gentle,  persuasive  way. 

"I  won't.  But  why  not  tell  dad?  He  wouldn't  mind. 
He'd  do  that  sort  of  thing  himself." 

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THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"  Reckon  he  would.  But  this  deal's  out  of  the  ordinary. 
An*  Wils's  not  in  as  good  shape  as  he  thinks.  I'm  not 
takin'  any  chances.  I  don't  want  to  lose  nw  job,  an7  I 
don't  want  to  be  hindered  from  attendin'  to  this  boy." 

They  had  ridden  as  far  as  the  first  aspen  grove  when 
Wade  concluded  this  remark.  Columbine  halted  her 
horse,  causing  her  companion  to  do  likewise.  Her  former 
misgivings  were  augmented  by  the  intelligence  of  Wade's 
sad,  lined  face. 

11  Ben,  tell  me,"  she  whispered,  with  a  hand  going  to 
his  arm. 

"Miss  Collie,  I'm  a  sort  of  doctor  in  my  way.  I 
studied  some  medicine  an'  surgery.  An'  I  know.  I 
wouldn't  tell  you  this  if  it  wasn't  that  I've  got  to  rely 
on  you  to  help  me." 

"I  will — but  go  on — tell  me,"  interposed  Columbine- 
trying  to  fortify  herself. 

"Wils's  foot  is  all  messed  up.  Buster  Jack  kicked  it 
all  out  of  shape.  An'  it's  a  hundred  times  worse  than 
ever.  I'm  afraid  of  blood-poisonin'  an'  gangrene.  You 
know  gangrene  is  a  dyin'  an'  rottin'  of  the  flesh.  ...  I 
told  the  boy  straight  out  that  he'd  better  let  me  cut  his 
foot  off.  An'  he  swore  he'd  keep  his  foot  or  die!  .  .  . 
Well,  if  gangrene  does  set  in  we  can't  save  his  leg,  an* 
maybe  not  his  life." 

"Oh,  it  can't  be  as  bad  as  all  that!"  cried  Columbine. 
4<  Oh,  I  knew — I  knew  there  was  something.  .  .  .  Ben,  you 
mean  even  at  best  now — he'll  be  a — "  She  broke  off,  un 
able  to  finish. 

"  Miss  Collie,  in  any  case  Wils  '11  never  ride  again — not 
like  a  cowboy." 

That  for  Columbine  seemed  the  worst  and  the  last 
straw.  Hot  tears  blinded  her,  hot  blood  gushed  over  her, 
hot  heart-beats  throbbed  in  her  throat 

136 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

" Poor  boy !  That  '11— ruin  him,"  she  cried.  " He  loved 
• — a  horse.  He  loved  to  ride.  He  was  the — best  rider  of 
them  all.  And  now  he's  mined !  He'll  be  lame — a  cripple 
— club-footed!  .  .  .  All  because  of  that  Jack  Bellloundsi 
The  brute — the  coward!  I  hate  him!  Oh,  I  hate  him! 
.  .  .  And  I've  got  to  marry  him — on  October  first!  Oh, 
God  pity  me!" 

Blindly  Columbine  reeled  out  of  her  saddle  and  slowly 
dropped  to  the  grass,  where  she  burst  into  a  violent  storm 
of  sobs  and  tears.  It  shook  her  every  fiber.  It  was  hope 
less,  terrible  grief.  The  dry  grass  received  her  flood  of 
tears  and  her  incoherent  words. 

Wade  dismounted  and,  kneeling  beside  her,  placed  a 
gentle  hand  upon  her  heaving  shoulder,  but  he  spoke  no 
word.  By  and  by,  when  the  storm  had  begun  to  subside, 
he  raised  her  head. 

"Lass,  nothin'  is  ever  so  bad  as  it  seems,"  he  said, 
softly.  "Come,  sit  up.  Let  me  talk  to  you." 

"Oh,  Ben,  something  terrible  has  happened,"  she  cried. 
"It's  in  me!  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  But  it  '11  kill  me." 

"I  know,"  he  replied,  as  her  head  fell  upon  his  shoulder. 
"Miss  Collie,  I'm  an  old  fellow  that's  had  everythinv 
happen  to  him,  an'  I'm  livin'  yet,  tryin'  to  help  people 
along.  No  one  dies  so  easy.  Why,  you're  a  fine,  strong 
girl — an'  somethin'  tells  me  you  was  made  for  happiness. 
I  know  how  things  turn  out.  Listen — " 

"But,  Ben — you  don't  know — about  me,"  she  sobbed. 
"I've  told  you — I — hate  Jack  Belllounds.  But  I've — got 
to  marry  him!  .  .  .  His  father  raised  me — from  a  baby. 
He  brought  me  up.  I  owe  him — my  life.  .  .  .  I've  no 
relation — no  mother — no  father!  No  one  loves  me — for 
myself!" 

"Nobody  loves  you!"  echoed  Wade,  with  an  exquisite 

tone  of  repudiation.     "Strange  how  people  fool  them- 
10  I37 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

selves!  Lass,  you're  huggin'  your  troubles  too  hard.  An' 
you're  wrong.  Why,  everybody  loves  you!  Lem  an'  Jim 
— why  you  just  brighten  the  hard  world  they  live  in.  An* 
that  poor,  hot-headed  Jack — he  loves  you  as  well  as  he 
can  love  any  thin'.  An'  the  old  man — no  daughter  could 
be  loved  more.  .  .  .  An'  I — I  love  you,  lass,  just  like — as 
if  you — might  have  been  my  own.  I'm  goin'  to  be  the 
friend — the  brother  you  need.  An'  I  reckon  I  can  come 
somewheres  near  bein'  a  mother,  if  you'll  let  me." 

Something,  some  subtle  power  or  charm,  stole  over 
Columbine,  assuaging  her  terrible  sense  of  loss,  of  grief. 
There  was  tenderness  in  this  man's  hands,  in  his  voice, 
and  through  them  throbbed  strong  and  passionate  life  and 
spirit. 

"Do  you  really  love  me — love  me?"  she  whispered, 
somehow  comforted,  somehow  feeling  that  what  he  offered 
was  what  she  had  missed  as  a  child.  "And  you  want  to 
be  all  that  forme?" 

"  Yes,  lass,  an'  I  reckon  you'd  better  try  me.'v 

"Oh,  how  good  you  are!  I  felt  that — the  very  first 
time  I  was  with  you.  I've  wanted  to  come  to  you — to 
tell  you  my  troubles.  I  love  dad  and  he  loves  me,  but 
he  doesn't  understand.  Dad  is  wrapped  up  in  his  son. 
I've  had  no  one.  I  never  had  any  one." 

"You  havt  some  one  now,"  returned  Wade,  with  a  rich, 
deep  mellowness  in  his  voice  that  soothed  Columbine  and 
made  her  wonder.  "An'  because  I've  been  through  so 
much  I  can  tell  you  what  '11  help  you.  .  .  .  Lass,  if  a 
woman  isn't  big  an'  brave,  how  will  a  man  ever  be? 
There's  more  in  women  than  in  men.  Life  has  given  you 
a  hard  knock,  placin'  you  here — no  real  parents — an* 
makin'  you  responsible  to  a  man  whose  only  fault  is 
blinded  love  for  his  son.  Well,  you've  got  to  meet  it, 
face  it,  with  what  a  woman  has  more  of  than  any  man. 

138 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Cottrage!  Suppose  you  do  hate  this  Buster  Jack.  Sup 
pose  you  do  love  this  poor,  crippled  Wilson  Moore.  .  .  . 
Lass,  don't  look  like  that!  Don't  deny.  You  do  love 
that  boy.  .  .  .  Well,  it's  hell.  But  you  can  never  tell 
what  '11  happen  when  you're  honest  and  square.  If  you 
feel  it  your  duty  to  pay  your  debt  to  the  old  man  you 
call  dad — to  pay  it  by  marryin'  his  son,  why  do  it,  an*  be 
a  woman.  There's  nothin'  as  great  as  a  woman  can  be. 
There's  happiness  that  comes  in  strange,  unheard-of  ways. 
There's  more  in  this  life  than  what  you  want  most.  You 
didn't  place  yourself  in  this  fix.  So  if  you  meet  it  with 
courage  an'  faithfulness  to  yourself,  why,  it  11  not  turn 
out  as  you  dread.  .  .  .  Some  day,  if  you  ever  think  you're 
broken-hearted,  I'll  tell  you  my  story.  An'  then  you'll 
not  think  your  lot  so  hard.  For  I've  had  a  broken  heart 
an'  ruined  life,  an'  yet  I've  lived  on  an'  on,  findin'  happi 
ness  I  never  dreamed  would  come,  fightin'  or  workin'. 
An'  how  I  found  the  world  beautiful,  an'  how  I  love  the 
flowers  an'  hills  an'  wild  things  so  well — that,  just  that 
would  be  enough  to  live  for!  ...  An'  think,  lass,  of  what  a 
wonderful  happiness  will  come  to  me  in  showin'  all  this 
to  you.  That  '11  be  the  crownin'  glory.  An'  if  it's  that 
much  to  me,  then  you  be  sure  there's  nothin'  on  earth  I 
won't  do  for  you." 

Columbine  lifted  her  tear-stained  face  with  a  light  of 
inspiration. 

"Oh,  Wilson  was  right!"  she  murmured.  "You  are 
Heaven-sent !  And  I  'm  going  to  love  you ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  IX 

ANEW  spirit,  or  a  liberation  of  her  own,  had  fired 
Columbine,  and  was  now  burning  within  her,  un 
quenchable  and  unutterable.  Some  divine  spark  had 
penetrated  into  that  mysterious  depth  of  her,  to  inflame 
and  to  illumine,  so  that  when  she  arose  from  this  hour  of 
calamity  she  felt  that  to  the  tenderness  and  sorrow  and 
fidelity  in  her  soul  had  been  added  the  lightning  flash  of 
passion. 

Oh,  Ben — shall  I  be  able  to  hold  on  to  this? "  she  cried; 
flinging  wide  her  arms,  as  if  to  embrace  the  winds  of 
heaven. 

"This  what,  lass?"  he  asked. 

"This — this  woman!"  she  answered,  passionately,  with 
her  hands  sweeping  back  to  press  her  breast. 

"  No  woman  who  wakes  ever  goes  back  to  a  girl  again," 
he  said,  sadly. 

"I  wanted  to  die — and  now  I  want  to  live — to  fight.  ! 
.  .  .  Ben,  you've  uplifted  me.  I  was  little,  weak,  miser 
able.  .  .  .  But  in  my  dreams,  or  in  some  state  I  can't  re 
member  or  understand,  I've  waited  for  your  very  words. 
I  was  ready.  It's  as  if  I  knew  you  in  some  other  world, 
before  I  was  born  on  this  earth;  and  when  you  spoke  to 
me  here,  so  wonderfully — as  my  mother  might  have 
spoken — my  heart  leaped  up  in  recognition  of  you  and 
your  call  to  my  womanhood!  .  .  .  Oh,  how  strange  and 
beautiful!" 

"Miss  Collie,"  he  replied,  slowly,  as  he  bent  to  his 

140 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

saddle-straps,  "you're  young,  an'  you've  no  under- 
standin'  of  what's  strange  an'  terrible  in  life.  An* 
beautiful,  too,  as  you  say.  .  .  .  Who  knows?  Maybe 
in  some  former  state  I  was  somethin'  to  you.  I  be 
lieve  in  that.  Reckon  I  can't  say  how  or  what. 
Maybe  we  were  flowers  or  birds.  I've  a  weakness 
for  that  idea." 

"Birds!  I  like  the  thought,  too,"  replied  Columbine. 
"I  love  most  birds.  But  there  are  hawks,  crows,  buz 
zards!" 

"I  reckon.  Lass,  there's  got  to  be  balance  in  nature. 
If  it  weren't  for  the  ugly  an'  the  evil,  we  wouldn't  know 
the  beautiful  an'  good.  .  .  .  An'  now  let's  ride  home.  It's 
gettin'  late." 

"Ben,  ought  I  not  go  back  to  Wilson  right  now?"  she 
asked,  slowly. 

"What  for?" 

*To  tell  him — something — and  why  I  can't  come  to 
morrow,  or  ever  afterward,"  she  replied,  low  and  tremu 
lously. 

Wade  pondered  over  her  words.  It  seemed  to  Colum 
bine  that  her  sharpened  faculties  sensed  something  of 
hostility,  of  opposition  in  him. 

"Reckon  to-morrow  would  be  better,"  he  said,  pres 
ently.  "Wilson's  had  enough  excitement  for  one  day." 

"Then  I'll  go  to-morrow,"  she  returned. 

In  the  gathering,  cold  twilight  they  rode  down  the 
trail  in  silence. 

"Good  night,  lass,"  said  Wade,  as  he  reached  his  cabin, 
"An'  remember  you're  not  alone  any  more." 

"Good  night,  my  friend,"  she  replied,  and  rode  on. 

Columbine  encountered  Jim  Montana  at  the  corrals, 
and  it  was  not  too  dark  for  her  to  see  his  foam-lashed 
horse.  Jim  appeared  non-committal,  almost  surly.  But 

141 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Columbine  guessed  that  he  had  ridden  to  Kremmling 
and  back  in  one  day,  on  some  order  of  Jack's. 

"Miss  Collie,  I'll  tend  to  Pronto,"  he  offered.  "An' 
yore  supper  '11  be  waitin'." 

A  bright  fire  blazed  on  the  living-room  hearth.  The 
rancher  was  reading  by  its  light. 

"Hello,  rosy -cheeks!"  greeted  the  rancher,  with  unusual 
amiability.  "Been  ridin'  ag'in'  the  wind,  hey?  Wai,  if 
you  ain't  pretty,  then  my  eyes  are  pore!" 

"It's  cold,  dad,"  she  replied,  "and  the  wind  stings. 
But  I  didn't  ride  fast  nor  far.  ...  I've  been  up  to  see 
Wilson  Moore." 

"Ahuh!  Wai,  how's  the  boy?"  asked  Belllounds, 
gruffly. 

"  He  said  he  was  all  right,  but — but  I  guess  that's  not 
so,"  responded  Columbine. 

"Any  friends  lookin'  after  him?" 

"Oh  yes — he  must  have  friends — the  Andrewses  and 
others.  I'm  glad  to  say  his  cabin  is  comfortable.  He'll 
be  looked  after." 

"Wai,  I'm  glad  to  hear  thet.  I'll  send  Lem  or  Wade 
up  thar  an'  see  if  we  can  do  anythin'  fer  the  boy." 

"Dad — that's  just  like  you,"  replied  Columbine,  with 
her  hand  seeking  his  broad  shoulder. 

"Ahuh!  Say,  Collie,  hyar's  letters  from  'most  every 
body  in  Kremmlin'  wantin'  to  be  invited  up  fer  October 
first.  How  about  askin'  'em?" 

"The  more  the  merrier,"  replied  Columbine. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  I'll  not  ask  anybody." 

"Why  not,  dad?" 

"No  one  can  gamble  on  thet  son  of  mine,  even  on  his 
weddin'-day,"  replied  Belllounds,  gloomily. 

"Dad,  what  'd  Jack  do  to-day?" 

"I'm  not  sayin'  he  did  anythin',"  answered  the  rancher. 

142 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Dad,  you  can  gamble  on  me." 

"Wai,  I  should  smile,"  he  said,  putting  his  big  arm 
around  her.  "  I  wish  you  was  Jack  an'  Jack  was  you." 

At  that  moment  the  young  man  spoken  of  slouched  into 
the  room,  with  his  head  bandaged,  and  took  a  seat  at  the 
supper-table. 

"Wai,  Collie,  let's  go  an'  get  it,"  said  the  rancher, 
cheerily.  "I  can  always  eat,  anyhow." 

"I'm  hungry  as  a  bear,"  rejoined  Columbine,  as  she 
took  her  seat,  which  was  opposite  Jack. 

"Where  've  you  been?"  he  asked,  curiously. 

"Why,  good  evening,  Jack!  Did  you  finally  notice 
me?  ...  I've  been  riding  Pronto,  the  first  time  since  he 
was  hurt.  Had  a  lovely  ride — up  through  Sage  Valley." 

Jack  glowered  at  her  with  the  one  unbandaged  eye,  and 
growled  something  under  his  breath,  and  then  began  to 
stab  meat  and  potatoes  with  his  fork. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jack?  Aren't  you  well?"  asked 
Columbine,  ^ith  a  solicitude  just  a  little  too  sweet  to  be 
genuine. 

"Yes,  I'm  well,"  snapped  Jack, 

"But  you  look  sick.  That  is,  what  I  can  see  of  your 
face  looks  sick.  Your  mouth  droops  at  the  corners. 
You're  very  pale — and  red  in  spots.  And  your  one  eye 
glows  with  unearthly  woe,  as  if  you  were  not  long  for  this 
world!" 

The  amazing  nature  of  this  speech,  coming  from  the 
girl  who  had  always  been  so  sweet  and  quiet  and  back 
ward,  was  attested  to  by  the  consternation  of  Jack  and 
the  mirth  of  his  father. 

"Are  you  making  fun  of  me?"  demanded  Jack. 

"Why,  Jack!  Do  you  think  I  would  make  fun  of  you? 
I  only  wanted  to  say  how  queer  you  look.  .  .  .  Are  you 
going  to  be  married  with  one  eye? " 

143 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Jack  collapsed  at  that,  and  the  old  man,  after  a  long 
stare  of  open-mouthed  wonder,  broke  out:  "Haw!  Haw! 
Haw!  ...  By  Golly!  lass — I'd  never  believed  thet  was  in 
you.  .  .  .  Jack,  be  game  an'  take  your  medicine.  .  .  .  An' 
both  of  you  forgive  an'  forget.  Thar  '11  be  quarrels 
enough,  mebbe,  without  rakin'  over  the  past." 

When  alone  again  Columbine  reverted  to  a  mood 
vastly  removed  from  her  apparent  levity  with  the  rancher 
and  his  son.  A  grave  and  inward-searching  thought  pos 
sessed  her,  and  it  had  to  do  with  the  uplift,  the  spiritual 
advance,  the  rise  above  mere  personal  welfare,  that  had 
strangely  come  to  her  through  Bent  Wade.  From  their 
first  meeting  he  had  possessed  a  singular  attraction  for 
her  that  now,  in  the  light  of  the  meaning  of  his  life,  seemed 
to  Columbine  to  be  the  man's  nobility  and  wisdom,  arising 
out  of  his  travail,  out  of  the  terrible  years  that  had  left 
their  record  upon  his  face. 

And  so  Columbine  strove  to  bind  forever  in  her  soul  the 
spirit  which  had  arisen  in  her,  interpreting  from  Wade's 
rude  words  of  philosophy  that  which  she  needed  for  her 
own  light  and  strength. 

She  appreciated  her  duty  toward  the  man  who  had 
been  a  father  to  her.  Whatever  he  asked  that  would 
she  do.  And  as  for  the  son  she  must  live  with  the  rest 
of  her  life,  her  duty  there  was  to  be  a  good  wife,  to  bear 
with  his  faults,  to  strive  always  to  help  him  by  kindness, 
patience,  loyalty,  and  such  affection  as  was  possible  to 
her.  Hate  had  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  hate,  she  knew, 
had  no  place  in  a  good  woman's  heart.  It  must  be  ex 
pelled,  if  that  were  humanly  possible.  All  this  was  hard, 
would  grow  harder,  but  she  accepted  it,  and  knew  her 
mind. 

Her  soul  was  her  own,  unchangeable  through  any  ad 
versity.  She  could  be  with  that  alone  always,  aloof  from 

144 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

the  petty  cares  and  troubles  common  to  people.  Wade's 
words  had  thrilled  her  with  their  secret,  with  their  limit 
less  hope  of  an  unknown  world  of  thought  and  feeling. 
Happiness,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  might  never  be  hers. 
Alas  for  her  dreams!  But  there  had  been  given  her  a 
glimpse  of  something  higher  than  pleasure  and  content 
ment.  Dreams  were  but  dreams.  But  she  could  still 
dream  of  what  had  been,  of  what  might  have  been,  of 
the  beauty  and  mystery  of  life,  of  something  in  nature 
that  called  sweetly  and  irresistibly  to  her.  Who  could 
rob  her  of  the  rolling,  gray,  velvety  hills,  and  the  purple 
peaks  and  the  black  ranges,  among  which  she  had  been 
found  a  waif,  a  little  lost  creature,  born  like  a  columbine 
under  the  spruces  ? 

Love,  sudden-dawning,  inexplicable  love,  was  her  secret, 
Still  tremulously  new,  and  perilous  in  its  sweetness.  That 
only  did  she  fear  to  realize  and  to  face,  because  it  was  an 
unknown  factor,  a  threatening  flame.  Her  sudden  knowl 
edge  of  it  seemed  inextricably  merged  with  the  mounting, 
strong,  and  steadfast  stream  of  her  spirit. 

"I'll  go  to  him.  I'll  tell  him,"  she  murmured.  "He 
shall  have  that!  .  .  .  Then  I  must  bid  him — good-by — for 
ever!" 

To  tell  Wilson  would  be  sweet;  to  leave  him  would  be 
bitter.  Vague  possibilities  haunted  her.  What  might 
come  of  the  telling?  How  dark  loomed  the  bitterness! 
She  could  not  know  what  hid  in  either  of  these  acts  until 
they  were  fulfilled.  And  the  hours  became  long,  and 
sleep  far  off,  and  the  quietness  of  the  house  a  torment, 
and  the  melancholy  wail  of  coyotes  a  reminder  of  happy 
girlhood,  never  to  return. 

When  next  day  the  long-deferred  hour  came  Columbine 
Selected  a  horse  that  she  could  run,  and  she  rode  up  the 

145 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

winding  valley  swift  as  the  wind.  But  at  the  aspen  grove, 
where  Wade's  keen,  gentle  voice  had  given  her  secret  life, 
she  suffered  a  reaction  that  made  her  halt  and  ascend  the 
slope  very  slowly  and  with  many  stops. 

Sight  of  Wade's  horse  haltered  near  the  cabin  relieved 
Columbine  somewhat  of  a  gathering  might  of  emotion. 
The  hunter  would  be  inside  and  so  she  would  not  be  com 
pelled  at  once  to  confess  her  secret.  This  expectancy 
gave  impetus  to  her  lagging  steps.  Before  she  reached 
the  open  door  she  called  out. 

"Collie,  you're  late,"  answered  Wilson,  with  both  joy 
and  reproach,  as  she  entered.  The  cowboy  lay  upon  his 
bed,  and  he  was  alone  in  the  room. 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Where  is  Ben?"  exclaimed  Columbine. 

"  He  was  here.  He  cooked  my  dinner.  We  waited,  but 
you  never  came.  The  dinner  got  cold.  I  made  sure 
you'd  backed  out — weren't  coming  at  all — and  I  couldn't 
eat.  .  .  .  Wade  said  he  knew  you'd  come.  He  went  off 
with  the  hounds,  somewhere  .  .  .  and  oh,  Collie,  it's  all 
right  now!" 

Columbine  walked  to  his  bedside  and  looked  down  upon 
him  with  a  feeling  as  if  some  giant  hand  was  tugging  at 
her  heart.  He  looked  better.  The  swelling  and  redness 
of  his  face  were  less  marked.  And  at  that  moment  no 
pain  shadowed  his  eyes.  They  were  soft,  dark,  eloquent. 
If  Columbine  had  not  come  with  her  avowed  resolution 
and  desire  to  unburden  her  heart  she  would  have  found 
that  look  in  his  eyes  a  desperately  hard  one  to  resist.  Had 
it  ever  shone  there  before  ?  Blind  she  had  been. 

"You're  better,"  she  said,  happily. 

"Sure — now.  But  I  had  a  bad  night.  Didn't  sleep 
till  near  daylight.  Wade  found  me  asleep.  .  .  .  Collie,  it's 
good  of  you  to  come.  You  look  so — so  wonderful!  I 
never  saw  your  face  glow  like  that.  And  your  eyes — oh ! " 

146 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"You  think  I'm  pretty,  then?"  she  asked,  dreamilyp 
not  occupied  at  all  with  that  thought. 

He  uttered  a  contemptuous  laugh. 

"Come  loser,"  he  said,  reaching  for  her  with  a  clumsy 
bandaged  hand. 

Down  upon  her  knees  Columbine  fell.  Both  hands  flew 
to  cover  her  face.  And  as  she  swayed  forward  she  shook 
violently,  and  there  escaped  her  lips  a  little,  muffled 
sound. 

"Why— Collie!"  cried  Moore,  astounded.  "Good 
Heavens!  Don't  cry!  I — I  didn't  mean  anything.  I  only 
wanted  to  feel  you — touch  your  hand." 

"Here,"  she  answered,  blindly  holding  out  her  hand, 
groping  for  his  till  she  found  it.  Her  other  was  still 
pressed  to  her  eyes.  One  moment  longer  would  Colum 
bine  keep  her  secret — hide  her  eyes — revel  in  the  unutter 
able  joy  and  sadness  of  this  crisis  that  could  come  to  a 
woman  only  once. 

"What  in  the  world?"  ejaculated  the  cowboy,  now  be 
wildered.  But  he  possessed  himself  of  the  trembling  hand 
offered.  "Collie,  you  act  so  strange.  .  .  .  You're  not  cry 
ing!  .  .  .  Am  I  only  locoed,  or  flighty,  or  what?  Dear,  look 
at  me." 

Columbine  swept  her  hand  from  her  eyes  with  a  gesture 
of  utter  surrender. 

"Wilson,  I'm  ashamed  —  and  sad  —  and  gloriously 
ts-PPy/'  she  said,  with  swift  breathlessness. 

"Why?  "he  asked. 

"Because  of — of  something  I  have  to  tell  you,"  she 
whispered. 

"What  is  that?" 

She  bent  over  him. 

"Can't  you  guess?" 

He  turned  pale,  and  his  eyes  burned  with  intense  fire- 

147 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"I  won't  guess  ...  I  daren't  guess." 

"It's  something  that's  been  true  for  years — forever,  it 
seems — something  I  never  dreamed  of  till  last  night/' 
she  went  on,  softly. 

"Collie!"  he  cried.     "Don't  torture  me!" 

"Do  you  remember  long  ago — when  we  quarreled  so 
dreadfully — because  you  kissed  me?"  she  asked. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  kiss  you — and  live  to  forget?" 

"I  love  you!"  she  whispered,  shyly,  feeling  the  hot 
blood  burn  her. 

That  whisper  transformed  Wilson  Moore.  His  arm 
flashed  round  her  neck  and  pulled  her  face  down  to  his, 
and,  holding  her  in  a  close  embrace,  he  kissed  her  lips  and 
cheeks  and  wet  eyes,  and  then  again  her  lips,  passionately 
and  tenderly. 

Then  he  pressed  her  head  down  upon  his  breast. 

"My  God!  I  can't  believe!  Say  it  again!"  he  cried, 
hoarsely. 

Columbine  buried  her  flaming  face  in  the  blanket  cov 
ering  him,  and  her  hands  clutched  it  tightly.  The  wild- 
ness  of  his  joy,  the  strange  strength  and  power  of  his 
kisses,  utterly  changed  her.  Upon  his  breast  she  lay,  with 
out  desire  to  lift  her  face.  All  seemed  different,  wilder, 
as  she  responded  to  his  appeal:  "Yes,  I  love  you!  Oh^ 
I  love — love — love  you!" 

"Dearest!  .  .  .  Lift  your  face.  .  .  .  It's  true  now.  I 
know.  It's  proved.  But  let  me  look  at  you." 

Columbine  lifted  herself  as  best  she  could.  But  she 
was  blinded  by  tears  and  choked  with  utterance  that 
would  not  come,  and  in  the  grip  of  a  shuddering  emotion 
that  was  realization  of  loss  in  a  moment  when  she  learned 
the  supreme  and  imperious  sweetness  of  love. 

"Kiss  me,  Columbine,"  he  demanded. 

Through  blurred  eyes  she  saw  his  face,  white  and 

148 


THJK  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  she  bent  to  it,  meeting  his  lips  with  her  first  kiss 
which  was  her  last. 

"Again,  Collie — again!"  he  begged. 

"No — no  more,"  she  whispered,  very  low,  and  encircling 
his  neck  with  her  arms  she  hid  her  face  and  held  him 
convulsively,  and  stifled  the  sobs  that  shook  her. 

Then  Moore  was  silent,  holding  her  with  his  free  hand, 
breathing  hard,  and  slowly  quieting  down.  Columbine 
felt  then  that  he  knew  that  there  was  something  terribly 
wrong,  and  that  perhaps  he  dared  not  voice  his  fear.  At 
any  rate,  he  silently  held  her,  waiting.  That  silent  wait 
grew  unendurable  for  Columbine.  She  wanted  to  pro 
long  this  moment  that  was  to  be  all  she  could  ever  sur 
render.  But  she  dared  not  do  so,  for  she  knew  if  he  ever 
kissed  her  again  her  duty  to  Belllounds  would  vanish  like 
mist  in  the  sun. 

To  release  her  hold  upon  him  seemed  like  a  tearing  of 
her  heartstrings.  She  sat  up,  she  wiped  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  all  the  time  striving  for 
st-^ength  to  face  him  again. 

A  loud  voice,  ringing  from  the  cliffs  outside,  startled 
Columbine.  It  came  from  Wade  calling  the  hounds.  He 
had  returned,  and  the  fact  stirred  her. 

"I'm  to  marry  Jack  Belllounds  on  October  first." 

The  cowboy  raised  himself  up  as  far  as  he  was  able. 
It  was  agonizing  for  Columbine  to  watch  the  changing 
and  whitening  of  his  face! 

"  No — no ! "  he  gasped. 

"Yes,  it's  true,"  she  replied,  hopelessly. 

"No!"  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely. 

"But,  Wilson,  I  tell  you  yes.  I  came  to  tell  you.  It's 
true— oh,  it's  true!" 

"But,  girl,  you  said  you  love  me,"  he  declared,  trans* 
fixing  her  with  dark,  accusing  eyes. 

149 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"That's  just  as  terribly  true." 

He  softened  a  little,  and  something  of  terror  and  horrof 
took  the  place  of  anger. 

Just  then  Wade  entered  the  cabin  with  his  soft  tread, 
hesitated,  and  then  came  to  Columbine's  side.  She  could 
not  unrivet  her  gaze  from  Moore  to  look  at  her  friend,  but 
she  reached  out  with  trembling  hand  to  him.  Wade 
clasped  it  in  a  horny  palm. 

Wilson  fought  for  self-control  in  vain. 

"  Collie,  if  you  love  me,  how  can  you  marry  Jack  Bell- 
lounds?"  he  demanded. 

"I  must." 

"Why  must  you?" 

"I  owe  my  life  and  my  bringing  up  to  his  father.  He 
wants  me  to  do  it.  His  heart  is  set  upon  my  helping;  Jack 
to  become  a  man.  .  .  .  Dad  loves  me,  and  1  love  him. 
I  must  stand  by  him.  I  must  repay  him.  It  is  my 
duty." 

"  You've  a  duty  to  yourself — as  a  woman ' "  he  rejoined, 
passionately.  "  Belllounds  is  wrapped  up  ir-  his  son.  He's 
blind  to  the  shame  of  such  a  marriage.  But  you're  not." 

"Shame?"  faltered  Columbine. 

"  Yes.  The  shame  of  marrying  one  man  when  you  love 
another.  You  can't  love  two  men.  .  .  .  You'll  give  your 
self.  You'll  be  his  wife!  Do  you  understand  what  that 
means?" 

"  I — I  think — I  do,"  replied  Columbine,  faintly.  Where 
had  vanished  all  her  wonderful  spirit  ?  This  fire-eyed  boy 
was  breaking  her  heart  with  his  reproach. 

"But  you'll  bear  his  children,"  cried  Wilson.  "Mother 
of — them — when  you  love  me!  ...  Didn't  you  think  of 
that?" 

"  Oh  no — I  never  did — I  never  did ! "  wailed  Columbine. 

"Then  you'll  think  before  it's  too  late?"  he  implored. 

150 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

wildly.  "Dearest  Collie,  think/  You  won't  ruin  your 
self  !  You  won ' t  ?  Say  you  won 't ! " 

"But —  Oh,  Wilson,  what  can  I  say?  I've  got  to 
marry  him." 

"Collie,  I'll  kill  him  before  he  gets  you." 

"You  mustn't  talk  so.  If  you  fought  again — if  any 
thing  terrible  happened,  it  'd  kill  me." 

"You'd  be  better  off ! "  he  flashed,  white  as  a  sheet. 

Columbine  leaned  against  Wade  for  support.  She  was 
fast  weakening  in  strength,  although  her  spirit  held.  She 
knew  what  was  inevitable.  But  Wilson's  agony  was 
rending  her. 

"Listen,"  began  the  cowboy  again.  "It's  your  life — 
your  happiness — your  soul.  .  .  .  Belllounds  is  crazy  over 
that  spoiled  boy.  He  thinks  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in 
him.  .  .  .  But  Jack  Belllounds  is  no  good  on  this  earth! 
.  .  .  Collie  dearest,  don't  think  that's  my  jealousy.  I 
am  horribly  jealous.  But  I  know  him.  He's  not 
worth  you!  No  man  is — and  he  the  least.  He'll  break 
your  heart,  drag  you  down,  ruin  your  health — kill  you,  as 
sure  as  you  stand  there.  I  want  you  to  know  I  could 
prove  to  you  what  he  is.  But  don't  make  me.  Trust 
me,  Collie.  Believe  me." 

"Wilson,  I  do  believe  you,"  cried  Columbine.  "But 
it  doesn't  make  any  difference.  It  only  makes  my  duty 
harder." 

"He'll  treat  you  like  he  treats  a  horse  or  a  dog.  He'll 
beat  you — " 

"He  never  will!     If  he  ever  lays  a  hand  on  me — " 

"If  not  that,  he'll  tire  of  you.  Jack  Belllounds  never 
stuck  to  anything  in  his  life,  and  never  will.  It's  not  in 
him.  He  wants  what  he  can't  have.  If  he  gets  it,  then 
right  off  he  doesn't  want  it.  Oh,  I've  known  him  since 
he  was  a  kid.  .  .  .  Columbine,  you've  a  mistaken  sense  of 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

duty.  No  girl  need  sacrifice  her  all  because  some  man 
found  her  a  lost  baby  and  gave  her  a  home.  A  woman 
owes  more  to  herself  than  to  any  one." 

"Oh,  that's  true,  Wilson.  I've  thought  it  all.  .  .  .  But 
you're  unjust — hard.  You  make  no  allowance  for — for 
some  possible  good  in  every  one.  Dad  swears  I  can  re 
form  Jack.  Maybe  I  can.  I'll  pray  for  it." 

"Reform  Jack  Belllounds!  How  can  you  save  a  bad 
egg?  That  damned  coward!  Didn't  he  prove  to  you 
what  he  was  when  he  jumped  on  me  and  kicked  my 
broken  foot  till  I  fainted? .  .  .  What  do  you  want?" 

" Don't  say  any  more — please,"  cried  Columbine.  "Oh, 
I'm  so  sorry.  ...  I  oughtn't  have  come.  .  .  .  Ben,  take  me 
home." 

"But,  Collie,  I  love  you,"  frantically  urged  Wilson. 
"And  he — he  may  love  you — but  he's — Collie — he's 
been—" 

Here  Moore  seemed  to  bite  his  tongue,  to  hold  back 
speech,  to  fight  something  terrible  and  desperate  and 
cowardly  in  himself. 

Columbine  heard  only  his  impassioned  declaration  of 
love,  and  to  that  she  vibrated. 

"You  speak  as  if  this  was  one-sided,"  she  burst  out,  as 
once  more  the  gush  of  hot  blood  surged  over  her.  "You 
don't  love  me  any  more  than  I  love  you.  Not  as  much, 
for  I'm  a  woman!  ...  I  love  with  all  my  heart  and  soul!" 

Moore  fell  back  upon  the  bed,  spent  and  overcome. 

"Wade,  my  friend,  for  God's  sake  do  something,"  he 
whispered,  appealing  to  the  hunter  as  if  in  a  last  hope. 
"Tell  Collie  what  it  '11  mean  for  her  to  marry  Belllounds. 
If  that  doesn't  change  her,  then  tell  her  what  it  11  mean 
to  me.  I'll  never  go  home.  I'll  never  leave  here.  If  she 
hadn't  told  me  she  loved  me  then,  I  might  have  stood 
anything.  But  now  I  can't.  It  '11  kill  me,  Wade." 

152 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Boy,  you're  talkin'  flighty  again,"  replied  Wade. 
"This  mornin'  when  I  come  you  were  dreamin'  an'  talkin' 
— clean  out  of  your  head.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  you  an'  Collie 
listen.  You're  right  an'  she's  right.  I  reckon  I  never 
run  across  a  deal  with  two  people  fixed  just  like  you.  But 
that  doesn't  hinder  me  from  feelin'  the  same  about  it  as 
I'd  feel  about  somethin'  I  was  used  to." 

He  paused,  and,  gently  releasing  Columbine,  he  went 
to  Moore,  and  retied  his  loosened  bandage,  and  spread  out 
the  disarranged  blankets.  Then  he  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  and  bent  over  a  little,  running  a  roughened 
hand  through  the  scant  hair  that  had  begun  to  silver  upon 
his  head.  Presently  he  looked  up,  and  from  that  sallow 
face,  with  its  lines  and  furrows,  and  from  the  deep,  in 
scrutable  eyes,  there  fell  a  light  which,  however  sad  and 
wise  in  its  infinite  understanding  of  pain  and  strife,  was 
still  ruthless  and  unquenchable  in  its  hope. 

"Wade,  for  God's  sake  save  Columbine!"  importuned 
Wilson. 

"Oh,  if  you  only  could!"  cried  Columbine,  impelled 
beyond  her  power  to  resist  by  that  prayer. 

"Lass,  you  stand  by  your  convictions,"  he  said,  im 
pressively.  "An'  Moore,  you  be  a  man  an'  don't  make  it 
so  hard  for  her.  Neither  of  you  can  do  anythin'.  .  .  . 
Now  there's  old  Belllounds — he'll  never  change.  He 
might  r'ar  up  for  this  or  that,  but  he'll  never  change  his 
cherished  hopes  for  his  son.  .  .  .  But  Jack  might  change! 
Lookin'  back  over  all  the  years  I  remember  many  boys 
like  this  Buster  Jack,  an'  I  remember  how  in  the  nature 
of  their  doin's  they  just  hanged  themselves.  I've  a  queer 
foresight  about  people  whose  trouble  I've  made  my  own. 
It's  somethin'  that  never  fails.  When  their  trouble's 
goin'  to  turn  out  bad  then  I  feel  a  terrible  yearnin'  to  tell 
the  story  of  Hell-Bent  Wade.  That  foresight  of  trouble 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

gave  me  my  name.  .  .  .  But  it's  not  operatin'  here.  .  .  . 
An'  so,  my  young  friends,  you  can  believe  me  when  I  say 
somethin'  will  happen.  As  far  as  October  first  is  con 
cerned,  or  any  time  near,  Collie  isn't  goin'  to  marry  Jack 
Belllounds." 


CHAPTER  X 

ONE  day  Wade  remarked  to  Belllounds:  "You  can 
never  tell  what  a  dog  is  until  you  know  him.  Dogs 
are  like  men.  Some  of  'em  look  good,  but  they're  really 
bad.  An'  that  works  the  other  way  round.  If  a  dog's 
born  to  run  wild  an'  be  a  sheep-killer,  that's  what  he'll  be. 
I've  known  dogs  that  loved  men  as  no  humans  could  have 
loved  them.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  a  dog  if 
his  master  is  a  worthless  scamp." 

"Wai,  I  reckon  most  of  them  hounds  I  bought  had  no 
good  masters,  judgin'  from  the  way  they  act,"  replied  the 
rancher. 

"I'm  developin'  a  first-rate  pack,"  said  Wade.  "Jim 
hasn't  any  faults  exceptin'  he  doesn't  bay  enough.  Samp 
son's  not  as  true-nosed  as  Jim,  but  he'll  follow  Jim,  an* 
he  has  a  deep,  heavy  bay  you  can  hear  for  miles.  So 
that  makes  up  for  Jim's  one  fault.  These  two  hounds 
hang  together,  an'  with  them  I'm  developin'  others.  Den 
ver  will  split  off  of  bear  or  lion  tracks  when  he  jumps  a 
deer.  I  reckon  he's  not  young  enough  to  be  cured  of  that. 
Some  of  the  younger  hounds  are  comin'  on  fine.  But 
there's  two  dogs  in  the  bunch  that  beat  me  all  hollow." 

"Which  ones?"  asked  Belllounds. 

"There's  that  bloodhound,  Kane,"  replied  the  hunter. 
"He's  sure  a  queer  dog.  I  can't  win  him.  He  minds  me 
now  because  I  licked  him,  an'  once  good  an'  hard  when 
he  bit  me.  .  .  .  But  he  doesn't  cotton  to  me  worth  a  damn. 
He's  gettin'  fond  of  Miss  Columbine,  an'  I  believe  might 

155 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

make  a  good  watch-dog  for  her.  Where'd  he  come  from, 
Belllounds?" 

"Wai,  if  I  don't  disremember  he  was  born  in  a  prairie- 
schooner,  comin'  across  the  plains.  His  mother  was  a 
full-blood,  an'  come  from  Louisiana." 

"That  accounts  for  an  instinct  I  see  croppin'  out  in 
Kane/'  rejoined  Wade.  "He  likes  to  trail  a  man.  I've 
caught  him  doin'  it.  An'  he  doesn't  take  to  huntin'  lions 
or  bear.  Why,  the  other  day,  when  the  hounds  treed  a 
lion  an'  went  howlin'  wild,  Kane  came  up,  an'  he  looked 
disgusted  an'  went  off  by  himself.  He  hunts  by  himself, 
anyhow.  First  off  I  thought  he  might  be  a  sheep-killer. 
But  I  reckon  not.  He  can  trail  men,  an'  that's  about  all 
the  good  he  is.  His  mother  must  have  been  a  slave-hunter, 
an'  Kane  inherits  that  trailin'  instinct." 

"Ahuh!  Wai,  train  him  on  trailin'  men,  then.  I've 
seen  times  when  a  dog  like  thet  'd  come  handy.  An'  if 
he  takes  to  Collie  an'  you  approve  of  him,  let  her  have 
him.  She's  been  coaxin'  me  fer  a  dog." 

"That  isn't  a  bad  idea.  Miss  Collie  walks  an'  rides 
alone  a  good  deal,  an'  she  never  packs  a  gun." 

"Funny  about  thet,"  said  Belllounds.  "Collie  is  game 
in  most  ways,  but  she'd  never  kill  anythin'.  .  .  .  Wade, 
you  ain't  thinkin'  she  ought  to  stop  them  lonesome  walks 
an'  rides?" 

"No,  sure  not,  so  long  as  she  doesn't  go  too  far 
away." 

"Ahuh!  Wai,  supposin'  she  rode  up  out  of  the  valley, 
west  on  the  Black  Range? " 

"That  won't  do,  Belllounds,"  replied  Wade,  seriously. 
"But  Miss  Collie's  not  goin'  to,  for  I've  cautioned  her. 
Fact  is  I've  run  across  some  hard-lookin'  men  between 
here  an'  Buffalo  Park.  They're  not  hunters  or  prospecr 
tors  or  cattlemen  or  travelers." 

156 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wai,  you  don't  say!"  rejoined  Belllounds.  "Now, 
Wade,  are  you  connectin'  up  them  strangers  with  the 
stock  I  missed  on  this  last  round-up?" 

"Reckon  I  can't  go  as  far  as  that,"  returned  Wade. 
"But  I  didn't  like  their  looks." 

"Thet  comin'  from  you,  Wade,  is  like  the  fmdin's  of  a 
jury.  .  .  .  It's  gettin'  along  toward  October.  Snow  '11  be 
flyin'  soon.  You  don't  reckon  them  strangers  will  winter 
in  the  woods?" 

"No,  I  don't.  Neither  does  Lewis.  You  recollect 
him?" 

"Yes,  thet  prospector  who  hangs  out  around  Buffalo 
Park,  lookin'  fer  gold.  He's  been  hyar.  Good  fellar, 
but  crazy  on  gold." 

"I've  met  Lewis  several  times,  one  place  and  another. 
I  lost  the  hounds  day  before  yesterday.  They  treed  a 
lion  an*  Lewis  heard  the  racket,  an'  he  stayed  with  them 
till  I  come  up.  Then  he  told  me  some  interestin'  news. 
You  see  he's  been  worryin'  about  this  gang  thet's  rangin* 
around  Buffalo  Park,  an'  he's  tried  to  get  a  line  on  them. 
Somebody  took  a  shot  at  him  in  the  woods.  He  couldn't 
swear  it  was  one  of  that  outfit,  but  he  could  swear  he 
wasn't  near  shot  by  accident.  Now  Lewis  says  these 
men  pack  to  an'  fro  from  Elgeria,  an'  he  has  a  hunch 
they're  in  cahoots  with  Smith,  who  runs  a  place  there. 
You  know  Smith  ? " 

"No,  I  don't,  an'  haven't  any  wish  to,"  declared  Bell 
lounds,  shortly.  "He  always  looked  shady  to  me.  An* 
he's  not  been  square  with  friends  of  mine  in  Elgeria. 
But  no  one  ever  proved  him  crooked,  whatever  was 
thought.  Fer  my  part,  I  never  missed  a  guess  in  my 
life.  Men  don't  have  scars  on  their  face  like  his  fer 
nothinV 

"  Boss,  I'm  confidin'  what  I  want  kept  under  your  hat," 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

said  Wade,  quietly.  "I  knew  Smith.  He's  as  bad  as  the 
West  makes  them.  I  gave  him  that  scar.  .  .  .  An'  when 
he  sees  me  he's  goin'  for  his  gun." 

"Wai,  I'll  be  darned!  Doesn't  surprise  me.  It's  a 
small  world.  .  .  .  Wade,  I'll  keep  my  mouth  shut,  sure. 
But  what's  your  game?" 

"Lewis  an'  I  will  find  out  if  there  is  any  connection 
between  Smith  an'  this  gang  of  strangers — an'  the  occa 
sional  loss  of  a  few  head  of  stock." 

"Ahuh!  Wai,  you  have  my  good  will,  you  bet.  .  .  . 
Sure  thar's  been  some  rustlin'  of  cattle.  Not  enough  to 
make  any  rancher  holler,  an'  I  reckon  there  never  will  be 
any  more  of  thet  in  Colorado.  Still,  if  we  get  the  drop 
on  some  outfit  we  sure  ought  to  corral  them." 

"Boss,  I'm  tellin' you— " 

"Wade,  you  ain't  agoin'  to  start  thet  tellin'  hell-bent 
happenin's  to  come  hyar  at  White  Slides?"  interrupted' 
Belllounds,  plaintively. 

"No,  I  reckon  I've  no  hunch  like  that  now,"  responded 
Wade,  seriously.  "But  I  was  about  to  say  that  if  Smith 
is  in  on  any  rustlin'  of  cattle  he'll  be  hard  to  catch,  an'  if 
he's  caught  there'll  be  shootin*  to  pay.  He's  cunnin'  an* 
has  had  long  experience.  It's  not  likely  he'd  work  openly, 
as  he  did  years  ago.  If  he's  stealin'  stock  or  buyin'  an' 
sellin'  stock  that  some  one  steals  for  him,  it's  only  on  a 
small  scale,  an'  it  '11  be  hard  to  trace." 

"Wai,  he  might  be  deep,"  said  Belllounds,  reflectively. 
"But  men  like  thet,  no  matter  how  deep  or  cunnin'  they 
are,  always  come  to  a  bad  end.  Jest  works  out  natural. 
. . .  Had  you  any  grudge  ag'in'  Smith  ? " 

"What  I  give  him  was  for  somebody  else,  an'  was  sure 
little  enough.  He's  got  the  grudge  against  me." 

"Ahuh!  Wai,  then,  don't  you  go  huntin'  fer  trouble. 
Try  an*  make  White  Slides  one  place  thet  '11  disprove 

158 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

your  name.     All  the  same,  don't  shy  at  sight  of  anythin" 
suspicious  round  the  ranch." 

The  old  man  plodded  thoughtfully  away,  leaving  the 
hunter  likewise  in  a  brown  study. 

"He's  gettin'  a  hunch  that  I'll  tell  him  of  some  shadow 
hoverin1  black  over  White  Slides,"  soliloquized  Wade. 
"  Maybe — maybe  so.  But  I  don't  see  any  yet.  .  .  .  Strange 
how  a  man  will  say  what  he  didn't  start  out  to  say.  Now, 
I  started  to  tell  him  about  that  amazin'  dog  Fox." 

Fox  was  the  great  dog  of  the  whole  pack,  and  he  had 
been  absolutely  overlooked,  which  fact  Wade  regarded 
with  contempt  for  himself.  Discovery  of  this  particular 
dog  came  about  by  accident.  Somewhere  in  the  big 
corral  there  was  a  hole  where  the  smaller  dogs  could 
escape,  but  Wade  had  been  unable  to  find  it.  For  that 
matter  the  corral  was  full  of  holes,  not  any  of  which, 
however,  it  appeared  to  Wade,  would  permit  anything 
except  a  squirrel  to  pass  in  and  out. 

One  day  when  the  hunter,  very  much  exasperated, 
was  prowling  around  and  around  inside  the  corral, 
searching  for  this  mysterious  vent,  a  rather  small  dog, 
with  short  gray  and  brown  woolly  hair,  and  shaggy 
brows  half  hiding  big,  bright  eyes,  came  up  wagging 
his  stump  of  a  tail. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  it?"  demanded  Wade. 
Of  course  he  had  noticed  this  particular  dog,  but  to  no 
purpose.  On  this  occasion  the  dog  repeated  so  unmis 
takably  former  overtures  of  friendship  that  Wade  gave 
him  close  scrutiny.  He  was  neither  young  nor  comely 
nor  thoroughbred,  but  there  was  something  in  his  intelli 
gent  eyes  that  struck  the  hunter  significantly.  "Say, 
maybe  I  overlooked  somethin'?  But  there's  been  a  heap 
of  dogs  round  here  an'  you're  no  great  shucks  for  looks. 
Now,  if  you're  talkin'  to  me  come  an'  find  that  hole." 

159 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Whereupon  Wade  began  another  search  around  the  cor« 
ral.  It  covered  nearly  an  acre  of  ground,  and  in  some 
places  the  fence-poles  had  been  sunk  near  rocks.  More 
than  once  Wade  got  down  upon  his  hands  and  knees  to 
see  if  he  could  find  the  hole.  The  dog  went  with  him, 
watching  with  knowing  eyes  that  the  hunter  imagined 
actually  laughed  at  him.  But  they  were  glad  eyes,  which 
began  to  make  an  appeal.  Presently,  when  Wade  came 
to  a  rough  place,  the  dog  slipped  under  a  shelving  rock, 
and  thence  through  a  half -concealed  hole  in  the  fence; 
and  immediately  came  back  through  to  wag  his  stump  of 
a  iail  and  look  as  if  the  finding  of  that  hole  was  easy 
enough. 

"You  old  fox,"  declared  Wade,  very  much  pleased, 
as  he  patted  the  dog.  "You  found  it  for  me,  didn't 
you?  Good  dog!  Now  111  fix  that  hole,  an'  then  you 
can  come  to  the  cabin  with  me.  An'  your  name's 
Fox." 

That  was  how  Fox  introduced  himseft  to  Wade,  and 
found  his  opportunity.  The  fact  that  he  was  not  a  hound 
had  operated  against  his  being  taken  out  hunting,  and 
therefore  little  or  no  attention  had  been  paid  him.  Very 
shortly  Fox  showed  himself  to  be  a  dog  of  superior  intel 
ligence.  The  hunter  had  lived  much  with  dogs  and  had 
come  to  learn  that  the  longer  he  lived  with  them  the  more 
there  was  to  marvel  at  and  love. 

Fox  insisted  so  strongly  on  being  taken  out  to  hunt 
with  the  hounds  that  Wade,  Vowing  not  to  be  surprised 
at  anything,  let  him  go.  It  happened  to  be  a  particularly 
hard  day  on  hounds  because  of  old  tracks  and  cross-tracks 
and  difficult  ground.  Fox  worked  out  a  labyrinthine  trail 
that  Sampson  gave  up  and  Jim  failed  on.  This  delighted 
Wade,  and  that  night  he  tried  to  find  out  from  Andrews, 
who  sold  the  dog  to  Belllounds,  something  about  FoXo 

160 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

All  the  information  obtainable  was  that  Andrews  sus= 
pected  the  fellow  from  whom  he  had  gotten  Fox  had 
stolen  him.  Belllotmds  had  never  noticed  him  at  all. 
Wade  kept  the  possibilities  of  Fox  to  himself  and  reserved 
his  judgment,  and  every  day  gave  the  dog  another  chance 
to  show  what  he  knew. 

Long  before  the  end  of  that  week  Wade  loved  Fox  and 
decided  that  he  was  a  wonderful  animal.  Fox  liked  to 
hunt,  but  it  did  not  matter  what  he  hunted.  That  de 
pended  upon  the  pleasure  of  his  master.  He  would  find 
hobbled  horses  that  were  hiding  out  and  standing  still  to 
escape  detection.  He  would  trail  cattle.  He  would  tree 
squirrels  and  point  grouse.  Invariably  he  suited  his  mood 
to  the  kind  of  game  he  hunted.  If  put  on  an  elk  track, 
or  that  of  deer,  he  would  follow  it,  keeping  well  within 
sight  of  the  hunter,  and  never  uttering  a  single  bark  or 
yelp;  and  without  any  particular  eagerness  he  would 
stick  until  he  had  found  the  game  or  until  he  was  called 
off.  Bear  and  cat  tracks,  however,  roused  the  savage  in 
stinct  in  him,  and  transformed  him.  He  yelped  at  every 
jump  on  a  trail,  and  whenever  his  yelp  became  piercing 
and  continuous  Wade  well  knew  the  quarry  was  in  sight. 
He  fought  bear  like  a  wise  old  dog  that  knew  when  to  rush 
in  with  a  snap  and  when  to  keep  away.  When  lions  or 
wildcats  were  treed  Fox  lost  much  of  his  ferocity  and 
interest.  Then  the  matter  of  that  particular  quarry  was 
ended.  His  most  valuable  characteristic,  however,  was 
his  ability  to  stick  on  the  track  upon  which  he  was  put. 
Wade  believed  if  he  put  Fox  on  the  trail  of  a  rabbit,  and 
if  a  bear  or  lion  were  to  cross  that  trail  ahead  of  him,  Fox 
would  stick  to  the  rabbit.  Even  more  remarkable  was  it 
that  Fox  would  not  steal  a  piece  of  meat  and  that  he 
would  fight  the  other  dogs  for  being  thieves. 

Fox  and  Kane,  ir.  seemed  to  the  hunter  in  his  reflective 

161 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

foreshadowing  of  events  at  White  Slides,  were  destined  to 
play  most  important  parts. 

Upon  a  certain  morning,  several  days  before  October 
first — which  date  rankled  in  the  mind  of  Wade — he  left 
Moore's  cabin,  leading  a  pack-horse.  The  hounds  he  had 
left  behind  at  the  ranch,  but  Fox  accompanied  him. 

"Wade,  I  want  some  elk  steak,"  old  Belllounds  had 
said  the  day  before.  "Nothin'  like  a  good  rump  steak! 
I  was  raised  on  elk  meat.  Now  hyar,  more  'n  a  week  ago 
I  told  you  I  wanted  some.  There's  elk  all  around.  I 
heerd  a  bull  whistle  at  sunup  to-day.  Made  me  wish  I 
was  young  ag'in!  .  .  .  You  go  pack  in  an  elk." 

"I  haven't  run  across  any  bulls  lately,"  Wade  had 
replied,  but  he  did  not  mention  that  he  had  avoided  such 
a  circumstance.  The  fact  was  Wade  admired  and  loved 
the  elk  above  all  horned  wild  animals.  So  strange  was 
his  attitude  toward  elk  that  he  had  gone  meat-hungry 
many  a  time  with  these  great  stags  bugling  near  his  camp. 

As  he  climbed  the  yellow,  grassy  mountain-side,  working 
round  above  the  valley,  his  mind  was  not  centered  on  the 
task  at  hand,  but  on  Wilson  Moore,  who  had  come  to  rely 
on  him  with  the  unconscious  tenacity  of  a  son  whose 
faith  in  his  father  was  unshakable.  The  crippled  cowboy 
kept  his  hope,  kept  his  cheerful,  grateful  spirit,  obeyed 
and  suffered  with  a  patience  that  was  fine.  There  had 
been  no  improvement  in  his  injured  foot.  Wade  worried 
about  that  much  more  than  Moore.  The  thing  that 
mostly  occupied  the  cowboy  was  the  near  approach  of 
October  first,  with  its  terrible  possibility  for  him.  He  did 
not  talk  about  it,  except  when  fever  made  him  irrational, 
but  it  was  plain  to  Wade  how  he  prayed  and  hoped  and 
waited  in  silence.  Strange  how  he  trusted  Wade  to  avert 
catastrophe  of  Columbine's  marriage!  Yet  such  trust, 

162 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

seemed  familiar  to  Wade,  as  he  reflected  over  past  years. 
Had  he  not  wanted  such  trust — had  he  not  invited  it? 

For  twenty  years  no  happiness  had  come  to  Wade  in 
any  sense  comparable  to  that  now  secretly  his,  as  he  lived 
near  Columbine  Belllounds,  divining  more  and  more  each 
day  how  truly  she  was  his  own  flesh  and  the  image  of  the 
girl  he  had  loved  and  married  and  wronged.  Columbine 
was  his  daughter.  He  saw  himself  in  her.  And  Colum 
bine,  from  being  strongly  attracted  to  him  and  trusting 
in  him  and  relying  upon  him,  had  come  to  love  him. 
That  was  the  most  beautiful  and  terrible  fact  of  his  life 
— beautiful  because  it  brought  back  the  past,  her  baby, 
hood,  and  his  barren  years,  and  gave  him  this  sudden 
change,  where  he  lived  transported  with  the  sense  and 
the  joy  of  his  possession.  It  was  terrible  because  she  was 
unhappy,  because  she  was  chained  to  duty  and  honor, 
because  ruin  faced  her,  and  lastly  because  Wade  began 
to  have  the  vague,  gloomy  intimations  of  distant  tragedy. 
Far  off,  like  a  cloud  on  the  horizon,  but  there!  Long  ago 
he  had  learned  the  uselessness  of  fighting  his  morbid  visi* 
tations.  But  he  clung  to  hope,  to  faith  in  life,  to  ths 
victory  of  the  virtuous,  to  the  defeat  of  evil.  A  thousand 
proofs  had  strengthened  him  in  that  clinging. 

There  were  personal  dread  and  poignant  pain  for  Wade 
in  Columbine  Belllounds's  situation.  After  all,  he  had 
only  his  subtle  and  intuitive,  assurance  that  matters  would 
turn  out  well  for  her  in  the  end.  To  trust  that  now,  when 
the  shadow  began  to  creep  over  his  own  daughter,  seemea 
unwise — a  juggling  with  chance. 

"I'm  beginnin'  to  feel  that  I  couldn't  let  her  marry 
that  Buster  Jack,"  soliloquized  Wade,  as  he  rode  along 
the  grassy  trail.  "Fust  off,  seein'  how  strong  was  hex 
sense  of  duty  an'  loyalty,  I  wasn't  so  set  against  it.  But 
somethin's  growin'  in  me.  Her  love  for  that  crippled 

163 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

boy,  now,  an'  his  for  her!  Lord!  they're  so  young  an'  life 
must  be  so  hot  an'  love  so  sweet !  I  reckon  that's  why  I 
wouldn't  let  her  marry  Jack.  .  .  .  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
there's  the  old  man's  faith  in  his  son,  an'  there's  Collie's 
faith  in  herself  an'  in  life.  Now  I  believe  in  that.  An* 
the  years  have  proved  to  me  there's  hope  for  the  worst  of 
men.  ...  I  haven't  even  had  a  talk  with  this  Buster  Jack. 
I  don't  know  him,  except  by  hearsay.  An'  I'm  sure 
prejudiced,  which  's  no  wonder,  considerin'  where  I  saw 
him  in  Denver.  ...  I  reckon,  before  I  go  any  farther,  I'd 
better  meet  this  Belllounds  boy  an'  see  what's  in  him." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Wade  that  this  soliloquy  abruptly 
ended  his  thoughtful  considerations  for  the  time  being. 
This  was  owing  to  the  fact  that  he  rested  upon  a  decision, 
and  also  because  it  was  time  he  began  to  attend  to  the 
object  of  his  climb. 

Bench  after  bench  he  had  ascended,  and  the  higher  he 
got  the  denser  and  more  numerous  became  the  aspen 
thickets  and  the  more  luxuriant  the  grass.  Presently 
the  long  black  slope  of  spruce  confronted  him,  with  its 
edge  like  a  dark  wall.  He  entered  the  fragrant  forest, 
where  not  a  twig  stirred  nor  a  sound  pervaded  the  silence. 
Upon  the  soft,  matted  earth  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  made 
no  impression  and  scarcely  a  perceptible  thud. 

Wade  headed  to  the  left,  avoiding  rough,  rocky  defiles 
of  weathered  cliff  and  wind-fallen  trees,  and  aimed  to  find 
easy  going  up  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain  bluff  far 
above.  This  was  new  forest  to  him,  consisting  of  mod 
erate-sized  spruce-trees  growing  so  closely  together  that 
he  had  to  go  carefully  to  keep  from  snapping  dead  twigs. 
Fox  trotted  on  in  the  lead,  now  and  then  pausing  to  look 
up  at  his  master,  as  if  for  instructions. 

A  brightening  of  the  dark-green  gloom  ahead  showed 

164 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

the  hunter  that  he  was  approaching  a  large  glade  or  open 
patch,  where  the  sunlight  fell  strongly.  It  turned  out  to 
be  a  swale,  or  swampy  place,  some  few  acres  in  extent, 
and  directly  at  the  foot  of  a  last  steep,  wooded  slope. 
Here  Fox  put  his  nose  into  the  air  and  halted. 

"What 're  you  scentin',  Fox,  old  boy?"  asked  Wade, 
with  low  voice,  as  he  peered  ahead.  The  wind  was  in  the 
wrong  direction  for  him  to  approach  close  to  game  with 
out  being  detected.  Fox  wagged  his  stumpy  tail  and 
looked  up  with  knowing  eyes.  Wade  proceeded  cautiously. 
The  swamp  was  a  rank  growth  of  long,  weedy  grasses  and 
ferns,  with  here  and  there  a  green-mossed  bog  half  hidden 
and  a  number  of  dwarf  oak-trees.  Wade's  horse  sank 
up  to  his  knees  in  the  mire.  On  the  other  side  showed 
fresh  tracks  along  the  wet  margin  of  the  swale. 

"It's  elk,  all  right,"  said  Wade,  as  he  dismounted. 
"Heard  us  comin'.  Now,  Fox,  stick  your  nose  in  that 
track.  An'  go  slow." 

With  rifle  ready  Wade  began  the  ascent  of  the  slope  on 
foot,  leading  his  horse.  An  old  elk  trail  showed  a  fresh 
track.  Fox  accommodated  his  pace  to  that  of  the  toiling 
hunter.  The  ascent  was  steep  and  led  up  through  dense 
forest.  At  intervals,  when  Wade  halted  to  catch  his 
breath  and  listen,  he  heard  faint  snapping  of  dead 
branches  far  above.  At  length  he  reached  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  to  find  a  wide,  open  space,  with  heavy  forest 
in  front,  and  a  bare,  ghastly,  burned-over  district  to  his 
right.  Fox  growled,  and  appeared  about  to  dash  forward. 
Then,  in  an  opening  through  the  forest,  Wade  espied  a 
large  bull  elk,  standing  at  gaze,  evidently  watching  him. 
He  was  a  gray  old  bull,  with  broken  antlers.  Wade  made 
no  move  to  shoot,  and  presently  the  elk  walked  out  of 
sight. 

"Too  old  an'  tough,  Fox,"  explained  the  hunter  to  the 

165 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

anxious  dog.  But  perhaps  that  was  not  all  Wade's  mo 
tive  in  sparing  him. 

Once  more  mounted,  Wade  turned  his  attention  to  the 
burned  district.  It  was  a  dreary,  hideous  splotch,  a 
blackened  slash  in  the  green  cover  of  the  mountain.  It 
sloped  down  into  a  wide  hollow  and  up  another  bare 
slope.  The  ground  was  littered  with  bleached  logs,  trees 
that  had  been  killed  first  by  fire  and  then  felled  by  wind. 
Here  and  there  a  lofty,  spectral  trunk  still  withstood  the 
blasts.  Across  the  hollow  sloped  a  considerable  area 
where  all  trees  were  dead  and  still  standing — a  melancholy 
sight.  Beyond,  and  far  round  and  down  to  the  left, 
opened  up  a  slope  of  spruce  and  bare  ridge,  where  a  few 
cedars  showed  dark,  and  then  came  black,  spear-tipped 
forest  again,  leading  the  eye  to  the  magnificent  panorama 
of  endless  range  on  range,  purple  in  the  distance. 

Wade  found  patches  of  grass  where  beds  had  been 
recently  occupied. 

" Mountain-sheep,  by  cracky!"  exclaimed  the  hunter. 
"An*  fresh  tracks,  too! .  .  .  Now  I  wonder  if  it  wouldn't  do 
to  kill  a  sheep  an'  tell  Belllounds  I  couldn't  find  any  elk." 

The  hunter  had  no  qualms  about  killing  mountain- 
sheep,  but  he  loved  the  lordly  stags  and  would  have  lied 
to  spare  them.  He  rode  on,  with  keen  gaze  shifting 
everywhere  to  catch  a  movement  of  something  in  this 
wilderness  before  him.  If  there  was  any  living  animal  in 
sight  it  did  not  move.  Wade  crossed  the  hollow,  wended 
a  circuitous  route  through  the  upstanding  forest  of  dead 
timber,  and  entered  a  thick  woods  that  skirted  the  rim  of 
the  mountain.  Presently  he  came  out  upon  the  open  rim, 
from  which  the  depths  of  green  and  gray  yawned  mightily. 
Far  across,  Old  White  Slides  loomed  up,  higher  now,  with 
a  dignity  and  majesty  unheralded  from  below. 

Wade  found  fresh  sheep  tracks  in  the  yellow  clay  of 

1 66 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

the  rim,  small  as  little  deer  tracks,  showing  that  they  had 
just  been  made  by  ewes  and  lambs.  Not  a  ram  track  in 
the  group! 

"Well,  that  lets  me  out,"  said  Wade,  as  he  peered 
under  the  bluff  for  sight  of  the  sheep.  They  had  gone 
over  the  steep  rim  as  if  they  had  wings.  "Beats  hell 
how  sheep  can  go  down  without  fallin'!  An'  how  they 
can  hide!" 

He  knew  they  were  near  at  hand  and  he  wasted  time 
peering  to  spy  them  out.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not 
locate  them.  Fox  waited  impatiently  for  the  word  to  let 
him  prove  how  easily  he  could  rout  them  out,  but  this 
permission  was  not  forthcoming. 

"We're  huntin'  elk,  you  Jack-of-all-dogs,"  reprovingly 
spoke  the  hunter  to  Fox. 

So  they  went  on  around  the  rim,  and  after  a  couple  of 
miles  of  travel  came  to  the  forest,  and  then  open  heads  of 
hollows  that  widened  and  deepened  down.  Here  was  ex 
celled  pasture  and  cover  for  elk.  Wade  left  the  rim  to 
ride  down  these  slow-descending  half -open  ridges,  where 
cedars  grew  and  jack-pines  stood  in  clumps,  and  little 
grassy-bordered  brooks  babbled  between.  He  saw  tracks 
where  a  big  buck  deer  had  crossed  ahead  of  him,  and  then 
he  flushed  a  covey  of  grouse  that  scared  the  horses,  and 
then  he  saw  where  a  bear  had  pulled  a  rotten  log  to  pieces. 
Fox  did  not  show  any  interest  in  these  things. 

By  and  by  Wade  descended  to  the  junction  of  these 
hollows,  where  three  tiny  brooklets  united  to  form  a 
stream  of  pure,  swift,  clear  water,  perhaps  a  foot  deep  and 
several  yards  wide. 

"I  reckon  this  's  the  head  of  the  Troublesome,"  said 
Wade.  "Whoever  named  this  brook  had  no  sense.  .  .  0 
Yet  here,  at  its  source,  it's  gatherin'  trouble  for  itselL 
That's  th«  way  of  youth." 

167 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

The  grass  grew  thickly  and  luxuriantly  and  showed 
signs  of  recent  grazing.  Elk  had  been  along  the  brook 
that  morning.  There  were  many  tracks,  like  cow  tracks, 
only  smaller,  deeper,  and  more  oval ;  and  there  were  beds 
where  elk  had  lain,  and  torn-up  places  where  bulls  had 
plowed  and  stamped  with  heavy  hoofs. 

Fox  trailed  the  herd  to  higher  ground,  where  evidently 
they  had  entered  the  woods.  Here  Wade  tied  his  horses, 
and,  whispering  to  Fox,  he  proceeded  stealthily  through 
this  strip  of  spruce.  He  came  out  to  an  open  point,  taking 
ycare,  however,  to  keep  well  screened,  from  which  he  had 
a  glimpse  of  a  parklike  hollow,  grassy  and  watered. 
Working  round  to  better  vantage,  he  soon  espied  what 
had  made  Fox  stand  so  stiff  and  bristling.  A  herd  of  elk 
were  trooping  up  the  opposite  slope,  scarcely  a  hundred 
yards  distant.  They  had  heard  or  scented  him,  but  did 
not  appear  alarmed.  They  halted  to  look  back.  The 
hunter's  quick  estimate  credited  nearly  two  dozen  to  the 
herd,  mostly  cows.  A  magnificent  bull,  with  wide- 
spreading  antlers,  and  black  head  and  shoulders  and  gray 
hind  quarters,  stalked  out  from  the  herd,  and  stood  an 
instant,  head  aloft,  splendidly  significant  of  the  wild. 
Then  he  trotted  into  the  woods,  his  antlers  noiselessly 
spreading  the  green.  Others  trotted  off  likewise.  Wade 
raised  his  rifle  and  looked  through  the  sight  at  the  bull, 
and  let  him  pass.  Then  he  saw  another  over  his  rifle,  and 
another.  Reluctant  and  forced,  he  at  last  aimed  and 
pulled  trigger.  The  heavy  Henry  boomed  out  in  the 
stillness.  Fox  dashed  down  with  eager  barks.  When 
the  smoke  cleared  away  Wade  saw  the  opposite  slope 
bare  except  for  one  fallen  elk. 

Then  he  returned  to  his  horses,  and  brought  them  back 
to  where  Fox  perched  beside  the  dead  quarry, 

"Well,  Fox,  that  stag  '11  never  bugle  any  more  of  a 

168 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

sunrise,"  said  Wade.  "  Strange  how  we're  made  so  we 
have  to  eat  meat!  I'd  'a'  liked  it  otherwise." 

He  cut  up  the  elk,  and  packed  all  the  meat  the  horse 
could  carry,  and  hung  the  best  of  what  was  left  out  of 
the  reach  of  coyotes.  Mounting  once  more,  he  ascended 
to  the  rim  and  found  a  slope  leading  down  to  the  west. 
Over  the  basin  country  below  he  had  hunted  several  days. 
This  way  back  to  the  ranch  was  longer,  he  calculated,  but 
less  arduous  for  man  and  beast.  His  pack-horse  would 
have  hard  enough  going  in  any  event.  From  time  to  time 
Wade  halted  to  rest  the  burdened  pack-animal.  At  length 
he  came  to  a  trail  he  had  himself  made,  which  he  now  pro 
ceeded  to  follow.  It  led  out  of  the  basin,  through  burned 
and  boggy  ground  and  down  upon  the  forest  slope,  thence 
to  the  grassy  and  aspened  uplands.  One  aspen  grove, 
ftrhere  he  had  rested  before,  faced  the  west,  and,  for  reasons 
hard  to  guess,  had  suffered  little  from  frost.  All  the  leaves 
were  intact,  some  still  green,  but  most  of  them  a  glorious 
gold  against  the  blue0  It  was  a  large  grove,  sloping  gently, 
carpeted  with  yellow  grass  and  such  a  profusion  of  purple 
asters  as  Wade  had  never  seen  in  his  flower-loving  life. 
Here  he  dismounted  and  sat  against  an  aspen-tree.  His 
horses  ruthlessly  cropped  the  purple  blossoms. 

Nature  in  her  strong  prodigality  had  outdone  herself 
here.  Pale  white  the  aspen-trees  shone,  and  above  was 
the  fluttering,  quivering  canopy  of  gold  tinged  with  green, 
and  below  clustered  the  asters,  thick  as  stars  in  the  sky, 
waving,  nodding,  swaying  gracefully  to  each  little  autumn 
breeze,  lilac-hued  and  lavender  and  pale  violet,  and  all 
the  shades  of  exquisite  purple. 

Wade  lingered,  his  senses  predominating.  This  was  one 
of  those  moments  that  colored  his  lonely  wanderings. 
Only  to  see  was  enough.  He  would  have  shut  out  the 
encroaching  thoughts  of  self,  of  others,  of  Iife0  had  that 

12  169 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

been  wholly  possible.  But  here,  after  the  first  few 
moments  of  exquisite  riot  of  his  senses,  where  fragrance 
of  grass  and  blossom  filled  the  air,  and  blaze  of  gold 
canopied  the  purple,  he  began  to  think  how  beautiful  the 
earth  was,  how  Nature  hid  her  rarest  gifts  for  those  who 
loved  her  most,  how  good  it  was  to  live,  if  only  for  these 
blessings.  And  sadness  crept  into  his  meditations  be 
cause  all  this  beauty  was  ephemeral,  all  the  gold  would 
soon  be  gone,  and  the  asters,  so  pale  and  pure  and  purple, 
would  soon  be  like  the  glory  of  a  dream  that  had  passed. 

Yet  still  followed  the  saving  thought  that  frost  and 
winter  must  again  yield  to  sun,  and  spring,  summer, 
autumn  would  return  with  the  flowers  of  their  season, 
in  that  perennial  birth  so  gracious  and  promising.  The 
aspen  leaves  would  quiver  and  slowly  gild,  the  grass 
would  wave  in  the  wind,  the  asters  would  bloom,  lifting 
star-pale  faces  to  the  sky.  Next  autumn,  and  every  yearp 
and  forever,  as  long  as  the  sun  warmed  the  earth ! 

It  was  only  man  who  would  not  always  return  to  the 
haunts  he  lovedc 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  Bent  Wade  desired  opportunities  they  seemed 
to  gravitate  to  him. 

Upon  riding  into  the  yard  of  White  Slides  Ranch  he 
espied  Jack  Belllounds  sitting  in  idle,  moping  posture  on 
the  porch.  Something  in  his  dejected  appearance  roused 
Wade's  pity.  No  one  else  was  in  sight,  so  the  hunter  took 
advantage  of  the  moment. 

"Hey,  Belllounds,  will  you  give  me  a  lift  with  this 
meat?"  called  Wade. 

"Sure,"  replied  Jack,  readily  enough,  and  he  got  up. 

Wade  led  the  pack-horse  to  the  door  of  the  store-cabin, 
which  stood  back  of  the  kitchen  and  was  joined  to  it  by 
a  roof.  There,  with  Jack's  assistance,  he  unloaded  the 
meat  and  hung  it  up  on  pegs.  This  done,  Wade  set  to 
work  with  knife  in  hand. 

"I  reckon  a  little  trimmin'  will  improve  the  looks  of 
this  carcass,"  observed  Wade. 

"Wade,  we  never  had  any  one  round  except  dad  who 
could  cut  up  a  steer  or  elk,"  said  Jack.  "But  you've  got 
him  beat." 

"I'm  pretty  handy  at  most  things." 

"Handy! ...  I  wish  I  could  do  just  one  thing  as  well  as 
/ou,  I  can  ride,  but  that's  all.  No  one  ever  taught  me 
anything." 

"You're  a  young  fellow  yet,  an'  you've  time,  if  you  only 
take  kindly  to  learnin'0  I  was  past  your  age  when  I 
learned  most  I  know," 

171 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

The  hunter's  voice  and  his  look,  and  that  fascination 
which  subtly  hid  in  his  presence,  for  the  first  time  seemed 
to  find  the  response  of  interest  in  young  Belllounds. 

"I  can't  stick,  dad  says,  and  he  swears  at  me,"  replied 
Belllounds,  "But  I'll  bet  I  could  learn  from  you." 

"Reckon  you  could.     Why  can't  you  stick  to  anythin'  ? " 

"I  don't  know.  I've  been  as  enthusiastic  over  work  as 
over  riding  mustangs.  To  ride  came  natural,  but  in 
work,  when  I  do  it  wrong,  then  I  hate  it." 

"Ahuh!  That's  too  bad.  You  oughtn't  to  hate  work. 
Hard  work  makes  for  what  I  reckon  you  like  in  a  man, 
but  don't  understand.  As  I  look  back  over  my  life — an* 
let  me  say,  young  fellar,  it's  been  a  tough  one — what  I 
remember  most  an'  feel  best  over  are  the  hardest  jobs  I 
ever  did,  an'  those  that  cost  the  most  sweat  an'  blood." 

As  Wade  warmed  to  his  subject,  hoping  to  sow  a  good 
seed  in  Belllounds's  mind,  he  saw  that  he  was  wasting  his 
earnestness.  Belllounds  did  not  keep  to  the  train  of 
thought.  His  mind  wandered,  and  now  he  was  examin 
ing  Wade's  rifle, 

"Old  Henry  forty-four,"  he  said.  "Dad  has  one.  Also 
&x\  old  needle-gun.  Say,  can  I  go  hunting  with  you?" 

"Glad  to  have  you.     How  do  you  handle  a  rifle?" 

*'  I  used  to  shoot  pretty  well  before  I  went  to  Denver," 
he  replied.  "Haven't  tried  smce  I've  been  home.  .  .  . 
Suppose  you  let  me  take  a  shot  at  that  post  ? "  And  from 
where  he  stood  in  the  door  he  pointed  to  a  big  hitching- 
post  near  the  corral  gate. 

The  corral  contained  horses,  and  in  the  pasture  beyond 
were  cattle,  any  of  which  might  be  endangered  by  such 
a  shot.  Wade  saw  that  the  young  man  was  in  earnest, 
that  he  wanted  to  respond  to  the  suggestion  in  his  mind. 
Consequences  of  any  kind  did  not  awaken  after  the 
suggestion. 

172 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Sure.  Go  ahead.  Shoot  low,  now,  a  little  below  where 
you  want  to  hit,"  said  Wade. 

Belllounds  took  aim  and  fired.  A  thundering  report 
shook  the  cabin.  Dust  and  splinters  flew  from  the  post. 

"I  hit  it!"  he  exclaimed,  in  delight.  "I  was  sure  I 
wouldn't,  because  I  aimed  'way  under." 

''Reckon  you  did.     It  was  a  good  shot." 

Then  a  door  slammed  and  Old  Bill  Belllounds  appeared, 
his  hair  upstanding,  his  look  and  gait  proclaiming  him  on 
the  rampage. 

"Jack!  What  'n  hell  are  you  doin'?"  he  roared,  and 
he  stamped  up  to  the  door  to  see  his  son  standing  there 
with  the  rifle  in  his  hands.  " By  Heaven!  If  it  ain't  one 
thing  it's  another!" 

"Boss,  don't  jump  over  the  traces,"  said  Wade.  "I'll 
allow  if  I'd  known  the  gun  would  let  out  a  bellar  like  that 
I'd  not  have  told  Jack  to  shoot.  Reckon  it's  because 
we're  under  the  open  roof  that  it  made  the  racket.  I'm 
wantin'  to  clean  the  gun  while  it's  hot." 

"Ahuh!  Wai,  I  was  scared  fust,  harkin'  back  to  Indian 
days,  an'  then  I  was  mad  because  I  figgered  Jack  was  up 
to  mischief. . . .  Did  you  fetch  in  the  meat?" 

"You  bet.  An'  I'd  like  a  piece  for  myself,"  replied 
Wade. 

"Help  yourself,  man.  An'  say,  come  down  an'  eat 
with  us  fer  supper." 

"Much  obliged,  boss.     I  sure  will." 

Then  the  old  rancher  trudged  back  to  the  house. 

"Wade,  it  was  bully  of  you!"  exclaimed  Jack,  grate 
fully.  "You  see  how  quick  dad's  ready  to  jump  me? 
I'll  bet  he  thought  I'd  picked  a  shooting-scrape  with  one 
of  the  cowboys." 

"  Well,  he's  gettin'  old  an'  testy,"  replied  Wade.  "You 
ought  to  humor  him.  He'll  not  be  here  always." 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Belllounds  answered  to  tnat  suggestion  with  a  shadow 
ing  of  eyes  and  look  of  realization,  affection,  remorse. 
Feelings  seemed  to  have  a  quick  rise  and  play  in  him,  but 
were  not  lasting.  Wade  casually  studied  him,  weighing 
his  impressions,  holding  them  in  abeyance  for  a  sum  of 
judgment. 

"Belllounds,  has  anybody  told  you  about  Wils  Moore 
bein'  bad  hurt?"  abruptly  asked  the  hunter. 

"He  is,  is  he?"  replied  Jack,  and  to  his  voice  and  face 
came  sudden  change.  '  *  How  bad  ? ' ' 

"I  reckon  he'll  be  a  cripple  for  life,"  answered  Wade, 
seriously,  and  now  he  stopped  in  his  work  to  peer  at  Bell 
lounds.  The  next  moment  might  be  critical  for  that 
young  man. 

"Club-footed!  ...  He  won't  lord  it  over  the  cowboys 
any  more — or  ride  that  white  mustang!"  The  softer, 
weaker  expression  of  his  face,  that  which  gave  him 
some  title  to  good  looks,  changed  to  an  ugliness  hard 
for  Wade  to  define,  since  it  was  neither  glee,  nor  joy; 
nor  gratification  over  his  rival's  misfortune.  It  was 
rush  of  blood  to  eyes  and  skin,  a  heated  change  that 
somehow  to  Wade  suggested  an  anxious,  selfish  hunger. 
Belllounds  lacked  something,  that  seemed  certain.  But 
it  remained  to  be  proved  how  deserving  he  was  of 
Wade's  pity. 

"Belllounds,  it  was  a  dirty  trick — your  jumpin' 
Moore,"  declared  Wade,  with  deliberation. 

"The  hell  you  say!"  Belllounds  flared  up,  with  scarlet 
in  his  face,  with  sneer  of  amaze,  with  promise  of  bursting 
Tage.  He  slammed  down  the  gun. 

"Yes,  the  hell  I  say,"  returned  the  hunter.  "They 
(call  me  Hell-Bent  Wade!" 

"Are  you  friends  with  Moore?"  asked  Belllounds,  bfc 
ginning  to  shetke. 

174 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Yes,  I'm  that  with  every  one.  I'd  like  to  be  friends 
with  you." 

"I  don't  want  you.  And  I'm  giving  you  notice — you 
won't  last  long  at  White  Slides." 

" Neither  will  you!" 

Belllounds  turned  dead  white,  not  apparently  from  fury 
or  fear,  but  from  a  shock  that  had  its  birth  within  the 
deep,  mysterious,  emotional  Teachings  of  his  mind.  He 
was  utterly  astounded,  as  if  confronting  a  vague,  terrible 
premonition  of  the  future.  Wade's  swift  words,  like  the 
ring  of  bells,  had  not  been  menacing,  but  prophetic. 

"Young  fellar,  you  need  to  be  talked  to,  so  if  you've 
got  any  sense  at  all  it  '11  get  a  wedge  in  your  brain,"  went 
on  Wade.  "Fm  a  stranger  here.  But  I  happen  to  be  a 
man  who  sees  through  things,  an'  I  see  how  your  dad 
handles  you  wrong.  You  don't  know  who  I  am  an*  you 
don't  care.  But  if  you'll  listen  you'll  learn  what  might 
help  you.  .  .  .  No  boy  can  answer  to  all  his  wild  impulses 
without  ruinin'  himself.  It's  not  natural.  There  are  other 
people — people  who  have  wills  an'  desires,  same  as  you 
have.  You've  got  to  live  w;th  people.  Here's  your  dad 
an'  Miss  Columbine,  an'  the  cowboys,  an'  me,  an'  all  the 
ranchers,  so  down  to  Kremmlin'  an'  other  places.  These 
are  the  people  you've  got  to  live  with.  You  can't  go  on 
as  you've  begun,  without  ruinin'  yourself  an'  your  dad 
an'  the — the  girl.  .  .  .  It's  never  too  late  to  begin  to  be 
better.  I  know  that.  But  it  gets  too  late,  sometimes, 
to  save  the  happiness  of  others.  Now  I  see  where  you  re 
headin'  as  clear  as  if  I  had  pictures  of  the  future.  I  ve 
got  a  gift  that  way.  .  .  .  An',  Belllounds,  you'll  not  last. 
Unless  you  begin  to  control  your  temper,  to  forget  your 
self,  to  kill  your  wild  impulses,  to  be  kind,  to  learn  what 
love  is — you'll  never  last ! ...  In  the  very  nature  of  things, 
comin'  after  another  like  your  fights  with  Moore,  an* 
175 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

your  scarin*  of  Pronto,  an'  your  drmkin'  at  Kremmlin',  an0 
just  now  your  r'arin'  at  me — it's  in  the  very  nature  of  life 
that  goin'  on  so  you'll  sooner  or  later  meet  with  hell! 
You've  got  to  change,  Belllounds.  No  half-way,  spoiled- 
boy  changin',  but  the  straight  right-about-face  of  a  man! 
...  It  means  you  must  see  you're  no  good  an'  have  a 
change  of  heart.  Men  have  revolutions  like  that.  I  was 
no  good.  I  did  worse  than  you'll  ever  do,  because  you're 
not  big  enough  to  be  really  bad,  an'  yet  I've  turned  out 
worth  livin'.  .  .  .  There,  I'm  through,  an'  I'm  offerin'  to 
be  your  friend  an'  to  help  you." 

Belllounds  stood  with  arms  spread  outside  the  door, 
still  astounded,  still  pale ;  but  as  the  long  admonition  and 
appeal  ended  he  exploded  stridently.  "Who  the  hell  are 
you?  ...  If  I  hadn't  been  so  surprised — if  I'd  had  a  chance 
to  get  a  word  in — I'd  shut  your  trap!  Are  you  a  preacher 
masquerading  here  as  hunter?  Let  me  tell  you,  I  won't 
be  talked  to  like  that — not  by  any  man.  Keep  your 
advice  an'  friendship  to  yourself." 

"You  don't  want  me,  then?" 

"No,"  Belllounds  snapped. 

"Reckon  you  don't  need  either  advice  or  friend,  hey?" 

"No,  you  owl-eyed,  soft- voiced  fool!"  yelled  Belllounds. 

It  was  then  Wade  felt  a  singular  and  familiar  sensation, 
a  cold,  creeping  thing,  physical  and  elemental,  that  had 
not  visited  him  since  he  had  been  at  White  Slides. 

"I  reckoned  so,"  he  said,  with  low  and  gloomy  voice, 
and  he  knew,  if  Belllounds  did  not  know,  that  he  was  not 
acquiescing  with  the  other's  harsh  epithet,  but  only  greet 
ing  the  advent  of  something  in  himself. 

Belllounds  shrugged  his  burly  shoulders  and  slouched 
away. 

Wade  finished  his  dressing  of  the  meat.  Then  he  rode 
up  to  spend  an  hour  with  Moore.  When  he  returned  to 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

his  cabin  he  proceeded  to  change  his  hunter  garb  for  the 
;>est  he  owned.  It  was  a  proof  of  his  unusual  preoccupa 
tion  that  he  did  this  before  he  fed  the  hounds.  It  was 
sunset  when  he  left  his  cabin.  Montana  Jim  and  Lena 
hailed  as  he  went  by.  Wade  paused  to  listen  to  their 
i  ood-natured  raillery. 

"See  hyar,  Bent,  this  ain't  Sunday,"  said  Lem. 

"You're  spruced  up  powerful  fine.  What's  it  fer?" 
added  Montana. 

"Boss  asked  me  down  to  supper.' 

"Wai,  you  lucky  son-of-a-gun !  An'  hyar  we've  no 
invite,"  returned  Lem.  "Say,  Wade,  I  heerd  Buster  Jack 
roarin'  at  you.  I  was  ridin'  in  by  the  storehouse.  .  .  . 
'  Who  the  hell  are  you  ? '  was  what  collared  my  attention, 
an'  I  had  to  laugh.  An'  I  listened  to  all  he  said.  So  you 
was  offerin'  him  advice  an'  friendship?" 

"I  reckon." 

"Wai,  all  I  say  is  thet  you  was  wastin'  yore  breath," 
declared  Lem.  "You're  a  queer  fellar,  Wade." 

"Queer?  Aw,  Lem,  he  ain't  queer,"  said  Montana. 
"He's  jest  white.  Wade,  I  feel  the  same  as  you.  I'd 
like  to  do  some  ,hin'  fer  thet  locoed  Buster  Jack." 

"Montana,  you're  the  locoed  one,"  rejoined  Lem. 
"Buster  Jack  knows  what  he's  doin'.  He  can  play  a 
slicker  hand  of  poker  than  you." 

"Wai,  mebbe.     Wade,  do  you  play  poker?" 

"I'd  hate  to  take  your  money,"  replied  Wade. 

"You  needn't  be  so  all-fired  kind  about  thet.  Come 
over  to-night  an'  take  some  of  it.  Buster  Jack  invited 
himself  up  to  our  bunk.  He's  itchin'  fer  cards.  So  we 
says  shore.  Blud's  goin'  to  sit  in.  Now  you  come  ans 
make  it  five-handed." 

"Wouldn't  young  Belllounds  object  to  me?" 

"What?  Buster  Jack  shy  at  gamblin'  with  you?  Not 

177 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

much.  He's  a  born  gambler.  He'd  bet  with  his  grand 
mother  an'  he'd  cheat  the  coppers  off  a  dead  nigger's 
eyes." 

"Slick  with  cards,  eh?"  inquired  Wade. 

"Naw,  Jack's  not  slick.  But  he  tries  to  be.  An*  we 
jest  go  him  one  slicker." 

"Wouldn't  Old  Bill  object  to  this  card-playin'?" 

"He'd  be  ory-eyed.  But,  by  Golly!  we're  not  leadin* 
Jack  astray.  An'  we  ain't  hankerin'  to  play  with  him. 
All  the  same  a  little  game  is  welcome  enough." 

"I'll  come  over,"  replied  Wade,  and  thoughtfully  turned 
away. 

When  he  presented  himself  at  the  ranch-house  it  was 
Columbine  who  let  him  in.  She  was  prettily  dressed,  in 
a  way  he  had  never  seen  her  before,  and  his  heart  throbbed. 
Her  smile,  her  voice  added  to  her  nameless  charm,  that 
seemed  to  come  from  the  past.  Her  look  was  eager  and 
longing,  as  if  his  presence  might  bring  something  welcome 
to  her. 

Then  the  rancher  stalked  in.  "Hullo,  Wade!  Supper's 
most  ready.  What's  this  trouble  you  had  with  Jack? 
He  says  he  won't  eat  with  you." 

"I  was  offerm'  him  advice,"  replied  Wade. 

"What  on?" 

"Reckon  on  general  principles." 

" Humph!  Wai,  he  told  me  you  harangued  him  till  you 
was  black  in  the  face,  an' — " 

"Jack  had  it  wrong.  He  got  black  in  the  face,"  inter 
rupted  Wade. 

"  Did  you  say  he  was  a  spoiled  boy  an*  thet  he  was  no 
good  an'  was  headin'  plumb  fer  hell?" 

"That  was  a  little  of  what  I  said,"  returned  Wade, 
gently. 

1 '  Ahuh !  How  'd  thet  come  about  ? ' '  queried  Bellloundsp 

178 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

gruffly.  A  slight  stiffening  and  darkening  overcast  his 
face. 

Wade  then  recalled  and  recounted  the  remarks  that  had 
passed  between  him  and  Jack;  and  he  did  not  think  he 
missed  them  very  far.  He  had  a  great  curiosity  to  see 
how  Belllounds  would  take  them,  and  especially  the  young 
man's  scornful  rejection  of  a  sincerely  offered  friendship. 
All  the  time  Wade  was  talking  he  was  aware  of  Columbine 
watching  him,  and  when  he  finished  it  was  sweet  to  look 
at  her. 

"Wade,  wasn't  you  takin'  a  lot  on  yourself?"  queried 
the  rancher,  plainly  displeased. 

"  Reckon  I  was.  But  my  conscience  is  beholden  to  no 
man.  If  Jack  had  met  me  half-way  that  would  have  been 
better  for  him.  An'  for  me,  because  I  get  good  out  of 
helpin'  any  one." 

His  reply  silenced  Belllounds.  No  more  was  said  before 
supper  was  announced,  and  then  the  rancher  seemed 
taciturn.  Columbine  did  the  serving,  and  most  all  of  the 
talking.  Wade  felt  strangely  at  ease.  Some  subtle  dif 
ference  was  at  work  in  him,  transforming  him,  but  the 
moment  had  not  yet  come  for  him  to  question  himself. 
He  enjoyed  the  supper.  And  when  he  ventured  to  look 
up  at  Columbine,  to  see  her  strong,  capable  hands  and  her 
warm,  blue  glance,  glad  for  his  presence,  sweetly  expres 
sive  of  their  common  secret  and  darker  with  a  shadow  of 
meaning  beyond  her  power  to  guess,  then  Wade  felt  havoc 
within  him,  the  strife  and  pain  and  joy  of  the  truth  he 
never  could  reveal.  For  he  could  never  reveal  his  iden 
tity  to  her  without  betraying  his  baseness  to  her  mother. 
Otherwise,  to  hear  her  call  him  father  would  have  been 
earning  that  happiness  with  a  lie.  Besides,  she  loved 
Belllounds  as  her  father,  and  were  this  trouble  of  the 
present  removed  she  would  grow  still  closer  to  the  old 

179 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

man  in  his  declining  days.  Wade  accepted  the  inevitable. 
She  must  never  know.  If  she  might  love  him  it  must  be 
as  the  stranger  who  came  to  her  gates,  it  must  be  through 
the  mysterious  affinity  between  them  and  through  the 
service  he  meant  to  render. 

Wade  did  not  linger  after  the  meal  was  ended  despite 
the  fact  that  Belllounds  recovered  his  cordiality.  It  was 
dark  when  he  went  out.  Columbine  followed  him,  talk 
ing  cheerfully.  Once  outside  she  squeezed  his  hand  and 
whispered,  "How's  Wilson? 

The  hunter  nodded  his  reply,  and,  pausing  at  the  porch 
step,  he  pressed  her  hand  to  make  his  assurance  stronger. 
His  reward  was  instant.  In  the  bright  starlight  she  stood 
white  and  eloquent,  staring  down  at  him  with  dark,  wide 
eyes. 

Presently  she  whispered:  "Oh,  my  friend!  It  wants 
2>nly  three  days  till  October  first!" 

"Lass,  it  might  be  a  thousand  years  for  all  you  need 
worry,"  he  replied,  his  voice  low  and  full.  Then  it 
seemed,  as  she  flung  up  her  arms,  that  she  was  about  to 
embrace  him.  But  her  gesture  was  an  appeal  to  the 
stars,  to  Heaven  above,  for  something  she  did  not  speak. 

Wade  bade  her  good  night  and  went  his  way. 

The  cowboys  and  the  rancher's  son  were  about  to  en 
gage  in  a  game  of  poker  when  Wade  entered  the  dimly 
lighted,  smoke-hazed  room.  Montana  Jim  was  sticking 
tallow  candles  in  the  middle  of  a  rude  table;  Lem  was 
searching  his  clothes,  manifestly  for  money:  Bludsoe 
shuffled  a  greasy  deck  of  cards,  and  Jack  Belllounds  was 
filling  his  pipe  before  a  fire  of  blazing  logs  on  the  hearthc 

"Dog-gone  it!  I  hed  more  money  'n  thet,"  complained 
Lem.  "Jim,  you  rode  to  KrernmlnV  last.  Did  you  take 
*oy  money?" 

x8o 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wai,  come  to  think  of  it,  I  reckon  I  did,"  replied  Jinx 
in  surprise  at  the  recollection. 

"An'  whar's  it  now?" 

"Pard,  I  'ain't  no  idee.  I  reckon  it's  still  in  Krernmlin*. 
But  I'll  pay  you  back." 

"  I  should  smile  you  will.     Pony  up  now." 

"Bent  Wade,  did  you  come  over  calkilated  to  git 
skinned?"  queried  Bludsoe. 

"Boys,  I  was  playin'  poker  tolerable  well  in  Missouri 
when  you  all  was  nursin',"  replied  Wade,  imperturbably. 

"I  heerd  he  was  a  card-sharp,"  said  Jim.  "Wai,  grab 
a  box  or  a  chair  to  set  on  an'  let's  start.  Come  along, 
Jack;  you  don't  look  as  keen  to  play  as  usual." 

Belllounds  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  his 
manner  did  not  compare  favorably  with  that  of  the  genial 
cowboys. 

"I  prefer  to  play  four-handed,"  he  said. 

This  declaration  caused  a  little  check  in  the  conversa 
tion  and  put  an  end  to  the  amiability.  The  cowboys 
looked  at  one  another,  not  embarrassed,  but  just  a  little 
taken  aback,  as  if  they  had  forgotten  something  that  they 
should  have  remembered. 

"You  object  to  my  playin'?"  asked  Wade,  quietly. 

"I  certainly  do,"  replied  Belllounds. 

"Why,  may  I  ask?" 

"For  all  I  know,  what  Montana  said  about  you  may  bo 
true,"  returned  Belllounds,  insolently. 

Such  a  remark  flung  in  the  face  of  a  Westerner  was  an 
insult.  The  cowboys  suddenly  grew  stiff,  with  steady 
eyes  on  Wade.  He,  however,  did  not  change  in  the 
slightest. 

"I  might  be  a  card-sharp  at  that,"  he  replied,  coolly 
4*You  fellows  play  without  me.     I'm  not  carin'  about 
poker  any  more.     I'll  look  on." 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Thus  he  carried  over  the  moment  that  might  have 
been  dangerous.  Lem  gaped  at  him;  Montana  kicked  a 
box  forward  to  sit  upon,  and  his  action  was  expressive; 
Bludsoe  slammed  the  cards  down  on  the  table  and  favored 
Wade  with  a  comprehending  look.  Belllounds  pulled  a 
chair  up  to  the  table. 

"What  '11  we  make  the  limit?'*  asked  Jim. 

"Two  bits,"  replied  Lem,  quickly. 

Then  began  an  argument.  Belllounds  was  for  a  dollar 
limit.  The  cowboys  objected. 

"  Why,  Jack,  if  the  ole  man  got  on  to  us  playin'  a  dollar 
limit  he'd  fire  the  outfit,"  protested  Bludsoe. 

This  reasonable  objection  in  no  wise  influenced  the  old 
man's  son.  He  overruled  the  good  arguments,  and  then 
hinged  at  the  cowboys'  lack  of  nerve.  The  fun  faded  out 
of  their  faces.  Lem,  in  fact,  grew  red. 

"Wai,  if  we're  agoin'  to  gamble,  thet's  different,"  he 
said,  with  a  cold  ring  in  his  voice,  as  he  straddled  a  box 
and  sat  down.  "Wade,  lemme  some  money." 

Wade  slipped  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  forth 
a  goodly  handful  of  gold,  which  he  handed  to  the  cowboy. 
Not  improbably,  if  this  large  amount  had  been  shown 
earlier,  before  the  change  in  the  sentiment,  Lem  would 
have  looked  aghast  and  begged  for  mercy.  As  it  was,  he 
accepted  it  as  if  he  were  accustomed  to  borrowing  that 
much  every  day.  Belllounds  had  rendered  futile  the  easy 
going,  friendly  advances  of  the  cowboys,  as  he  had  made 
it  impossible  to  play  a  jolly  Httle  game  for  fun. 

The  game  began,  with  Wade  standing  up,  looking  on. 
These  boys  did  not  know  what  a  vast  store  of  poker  knowl 
edge  lay  back  of  Wade's  inscrutable  eyes.  As  a  boy  he 
had  learned  the  intricacies  of  poker  in  the  country  where 
it  originated;  and  as  a  man  he  had  played  it  with  piles 
of  vellow  coins  and  guns  on  the  table.  His  eagerness  to 

182 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

look  on  here,  as  far  as  the  cowboys  were  concerned,  was 
mere  pretense.  In  Belllounds's  case,  however,  he  had  a 
profound  interest.  Rumors  had  drifted  to  him  from  time 
to  time,  since  his  advent  at  White  Slides,  regarding  Bell 
lounds's  weakness  for  gambling.  It  might  have  been 
cowboy  gossip.  Wade  held  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
West  as  well  calculated  to  test  a  boy,  to  prove  his  real 
character,  as  a  game  of  poker. 

Belllounds  was  a  feverish  better,  an  exultant  winner,  a 
poor  loser.  His  understanding  of  the  game  was  rudi 
mentary.  With  him,  the  strong  feeling  beginning  to  be 
manifested  to  Wade  was  not  the  fun  of  matching  wits  and 
luck  with  his  antagonists,  nor  a  desire  to  accumulate 
money — for  his  recklessness  disproved  that — but  the  lib 
eration  of  the  gambling  passion.  Wade  recognized  that 
when  he  met  it.  And  Jack  Belllounds  was  not  in  any 
sense  big.  He  was  selfish  and  grasping  in  the  numberless 
little  ways  common  to  the  game,  and  positive  about  his 
own  rights,  while  doubtful  of  the  claims  of  others.  His 
cheating  was  clumsy  and  crude.  He  held  out  cards,  hid 
ing  them  in  his  palm,  he  shuffled  the  deck  so  he  left  aces 
at  the  bottom,  and  these  he  would  slip  off  to  himself,  and 
he  was  so  blind  that  he  could  not  detect  his  fellow-player 
in  tricks  as  transparent  as  his  own.  Wade  was  amazed 
and  disgusted.  The  pity  he  had  felt  for  Belllounds  shifted 
to  the  old  father,  who  believed  in  his  son  with  stubborn 
and  unquenchable  faith. 

"Haven't  you  got  something  to  drink?"  Jack  asked  of 
his  companions. 

"Nope.     Whar'd  we  git  it.-"'  replied  Jim. 

Belllounds  evidently  forgot,  for  presently  he  repeated 
the  query.  The  cowboys  shook  their  heads.  Wade  knew 
they  were  lying,  for  they  did  have  liquor  in  the  cabin.  It 
occurred  to  him,  then,  to  offer  to  go  to  his  own  cabin  for 

183 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

some,  just  to  see  what  this  young  man  would  say.  But 
he  refrained. 

The  luck  went  against  Belllounds  and  so  did  the  gam 
bling.  He  was  not  a  lamb  among  wolves,  by  any  means, 
but  the  fleecing  he  got  suggested  that.  According  to 
Wade  he  was  getting  what  he  deserved.  No  cowboys, 
even  such  good-natured  and  fine  fellows  as  these,  could 
be  expected  to  be  subjects  for  Belllounds's  cupidity.  And 
they  won  all  he  had. 

"I'll  borrow,"  he  said,  with  feverish  impatience.  His 
face  was  pale,  clammy,  yet  heated,  especially  round  the 
swollen  bruises;  his  eyes  stood  out,  bold,  dark,  rolling 
and  glaring,  full  of  sullen  fire.  But  more  than  anything 
else  his  mouth  betrayed  the  weakling,  the  born  gambler, 
the  self-centered,  spoiled,  intolerant  youth.  It  was  here 
his  bad  blood  showed. 

"Wai,  I  ain't  lendin'  money,"  replied  Lem,  as  he  as 
sorted  his  winnings.  "Wade,  here's  what  you  staked  me, 
an'  much  obliged." 

"I'm  out,  an'  I  can't  lend  you  any,"  said  Jim. 

Bludsoe  had  a  good  share  of  the  profits  of  that  quick 
game,  but  he  made  no  move  to  lend  any  of  it.  Belllounds 
glared  impatiently  at  them. 

"Hell !  you  took  my  money.  I'll  have  satisfaction,"  he 
broke  out,  almost  shouting. 

"We  won  it,  didn't  we?"  rejoined  Lem,  cool  and  easy. 
u  An'  you  can  have  all  the  satisfaction  you  want,  right 
now  or  any  time." 

Wade  held  out  a  handful  of  money  to  Belllounds. 

"Here,"  he  said,  with  his  deep  eyes  gleaming  in  the 
dim  room.  Wade  had  made  a  gamble  with  himself,  and 
it  was  that  Belllounds  would  not  even  hesitate  to  take 
money. 

"Come  on,  you  stingy  cowpunchers,"  he  called  outj 

184 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

snatching  the  money  from  Wade.  His  action  then,  vio 
lent  and  vivid  as  it  was,  did  not  reveal  any  more  than  his 
face. 

But  the  cowboys  showed  amaze,  and  something  more. 
They  feD  straightway  to  gambling,  sharper  and  fiercer 
than  before,  actuated  now  by  the  flaming  spirit  of  this 
son  of  Belllounds.  Luck,  misleading  and  alluring,  favored 
Jack  for  a  while,  transforming  him  until  he  was  radiant, 
boastful,  exultant.  Then  it  changed,  as  did  his  expres 
sion.  His  face  grew  dark. 

"I  tell  you  I  want  drink,"  he  suddenly  demanded.  "I 
know  damn  well  you  cowpunchers  have  some  here,  for  I 
smelled  it  when  I  came  in." 

"Jack,  we  drank  the  last  drop,"  replied  Jim,  who  seemed 
less  stiff  than  his  two  bunk-mates. 

"I've  some  very  old  rye,"  interposed  Wade,  looking  at 
Jim.  but  apparently  addressing  all.  "Fine  stuff,  but 
awful  strong  an'  hot!  .  .  .  Makes  a  fellow's  olood  dance." 

"Go  get  it!"  Belllounds's  utterance  was  thick  and  full, 
as  if  he  had  something  in  his  mouth. 

Wade  looked  down  into  the  heated  face,  into  the  burn 
ing  eyes;  and  through  the  darkness  of  passion  that 
brooked  no  interference  with  its  fruition  he  saw  this 
youth's  stark  and  naked  soul.  Wade  had  seen  into  the 
depths  of  many  such  abysses. 

"See  hyar,  Wade,"  broke  in  Jim,  with  his  auiet  force, 
"never  mind  fetchin'  thet  red-hot  rye  to-night.  Some 
other  time,  mebbe,  when  Jack  wants  more  satisfaction. 
Reckon  we've  got  a  drop  or  so  left." 

"All  right,  boys,"  replied  Wade,  "I'll  be  savin'  good 
night." 

He  left  them  playing  and  strode  out  to  return  to  his 
cabin.  The  night  was  still,  cold,  starlit,  and  black  in 
the  shadowSo  A  lonesome  coyote  barked,  to  be  answered 

13  iS 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

by  a  wakeful  hound.  Wade  halted  at  his  porch,  and  lin 
gered  there  a  moment,  peering  up  at  the  gray  old  peaks, 
bare  and  star-crowned. 

"I'm  sorry  for  the  old  man,"  muttered  the  hunter,  "but 
I'd  see  Jack  Belllounds  in  hell  before  I'd  let  Columbine 
marry  him." 

October  first  was  a  holiday  at  White  Slides  Ranch.  It 
happened  to  be  a  glorious  autumn  day,  with  the  sunlight 
streaming  gold  and  amber  over  the  grassy  slopes.  Fai 
off  the  purple  ranges  loomed  hauntingly. 

Wade  had  come  down  from  Wilson  Moore's  cabin,  his 
ears  ringing  with  the  crippled  boy's  words  of  poignant  fear. 

Fox  favored  his  master  with  unusually  knowing  gaze. 
There  was  not  going  to  be  any  lion-chasing  or  elk-hunting 
this  day.  Something  was  in  the  wind.  And  Fox,  as  a 
privileged  d^  manifested  his  interest  and  wonder. 

Before  noon  a  buckboard  with  team  of  sweating  horses 
halted  in  the  yard  of  the  ranch-house.  Besides  the  driver 
it  contained  two  women  whom  Belllounds  greeted  as 
relatives,  and  a  stranger,  a  pale  man  whose  dark  garb 
proclaimed  him  a  minister. 

"Come  right  in,  folks/'  welcomed  Belllounds,  with 
hearty  excitement. 

It  was  Wade  who  showed  the  driver  where  to  put  the 
horses.  Strangely,  not  a  cowboy  was  in  sight,  an  omission 
of  duty  the  rancher  had  noted.  Wade  might  have  in 
formed  him  where  they  were. 

The  door  of  the  big  livi'ng-room  stood  open,  and  from 
it  came  the  sound  of  laughter  and  voices.  Wade,  who 
had  returned  to  his  seat  on  the  end  of  the  porch,  listened 
to  them,  while  his  keen  gaze  seemed  fixed  down  the  lane 
toward  the  cabins.  How  intent  must  he  have  been  not 
to  hear  Columbine's  step  behind  him! 

186 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

''Good  morning,  Ben,"  she  said. 

Wade  wheeled  as  if  internal  violence  had  ordered  his 
movement. 

"Lass,  good  mornin',"  he  replied.  "You  sure  look 
sweet  this  October  first — like  the  flower  for  which  you're 
named." 

"My  friend,  it  is  October  first — my  marriage  day!" 
murmured  Columbine. 

Wade  felt  her  intensity,  and  he  thrilled  to  the  brave, 
sweet  resignation  of  her  face.  Hope  and  faith  were  un 
quenchable  in  her,  yet  she  had  fortified  herself  to  the 
wreck  of  dreams  and  love. 

"I'd  seen  you  before  now,  but  I  had  some  job  with  Wils, 
persuadin'  him  that  we'd  not  have  to  offer  you  congratu 
lations  yet  awhile,"  replied  Wade,  in  his  slow,  gentle  voice 

"Ok!"  breathed  Columbine. 

Wade  saw  her  full  breast  swell  and  the  leaping  blood 
wave  over  her  pale  face.  She  bent  to  him  to  see  his  eyes. 
And  for  Wade,  when  she  peered  with  straining  heart  and 
soul,  all  at  once  to  become  transfigured,  that  instant  was 
a  sweet  and  all-fulfilling  reward  for  his  years  of  pain. 

"You  drive  me  mad! "  she  whispered. 

The  heavy  tread  of  the  rancher,  like  the  last  of  succes 
sive  steps  of  fate  in  Wade's  tragic  expectancy,  sounded 
on  the  porch. 

"Wai,  lass,  hyar  you  are,"  he  said,  with  a  gladness  deep 
in  his  voice.  "Now,  whar's  the  boy?" 

"Dad — I've  not — seen  Jack  since  breakfast."  replied 
Columbine,  tremulously. 

"Sort  of  a  laggard  in  love  on  his  weddin'-day,"  rejoined 
the  rancher.  His  gladness  and  forgetfulness  were  as  big 
as  his  heart.  "Wade,  have  you  seen  Jack?" 

"No — I  haven't,"  replied  the  hunter,  with  slow,  long= 
drawn  utterance  "But — I  see — him  now." 

187 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Wade  pointed  to  the  figure  of  Jack  Belllounds  approach 
ing  from  the  direction  of  the  cabins.  He  was  not  walking 
straight. 

Old  man  Belllounds  shot  out  his  gray  head  like  a  strik 
ing  eagle. 

"What  the  hell?"  he  muttered,  as  if  bewildered  at  this 
strange,  uneven  gait  of  his  son.  "Wade,  what's  the 
matter  with  Jack?" 

Wade  did  not  reply.  That  moment  had  its  sorrow  for 
him  as  well  as  understanding  of  the  wonder  expressed  by 
Columbine's  cold  little  hand  trembling  in  his. 

The  rancher  suddenly  recoiled. 

"So  help  me  Gawd — he's  drunk!"  he  gasped,  in  a  dis 
tress  that  unmanned  him. 

Then  the  parson  and  the  invited  relatives  came  out 
upon  the  porch,  with  gay  voices  and  laughter  that  sud 
denly  stilled  when  old  Belllounds  cried,  brokenly:  "Lass 
— go — in — the  house." 

But  Columbine  did  not  move,  and  Wade  felt  her  shaking 
as  she  leaned  against  him. 

The  bridegroom  approached.  Drunk  indeed  he  was; 
not  hilariously,  as  one  who  celebrated  his  good  fortune, 
but  sullenly,  tragically,  hideously  drunk. 

Old  Belllounds  leaped  off  the  porch.  His  gray  hair 
stood  up  like  the  mane  of  a  lion.  Like  a  giant's  were  his 
strides.  With  a  lunge  he  met  his  reeling  son,  swinging  a 
huge  fist  into  the  sodden  red  face.  Limply  Jack  fell  to 
the  ground. 

"Lay  there,  you  damned  prodigal!"  he  roared,  terrible 
in  his  rage.  "You  disgrace  me — an'  you  disgrace  the  girl 
who's  been  a  daughter  to  me ! ...  If  you  ever  have  another 
weddin'-day  it  'U  not  be  me  who  sets  it!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

NOVEMBER  was  well  advanced  before  there  came 
indications  that  winter  was  near  at  hand. 

One  morning,  when  Wade  rode  up  to  Moore's  cabin, 
the  whole  world  seemed  obscured  in  a  dense  gray  fog, 
through  which  he  could  not  see  a  rod  ahead  of  him.  Later, 
as  he  left,  the  fog  had  lifted  shoulder-high  to  the  moun 
tains,  and  was  breaking  to  let  the  blue  sky  show.  An 
other  morning  it  was  worse,  and  apparently  thicker  and 
grayer.  As  Wade  climbed  the  trail  up  toward  the  moun 
tain-basin,  where  he  hunted  most  these  days,  he  expected 
the  fog  to  lift.  But  it  did  not.  The  trail  under  the  hoofs 
of  the  horse  was  scarcely  perceptible  to  him,  and  he 
seemed  lost  in  a  dense,  gray,  soundless  obscurity. 

Suddenly  Wade  emerged  from  out  the  fog  into  brilliant 
sunshine.  In  amaze  he  halted.  This  phenomenon  was 
new  to  him.  He  was  high  up  on  the  mountain-side,  the 
summit  of  which  rose  clear-cut  and  bold  into  the  sky. 
Below  him  spread  what  resembled  a  white  sea.  It  was 
an  immense  cloud-bank,  filling  all  the  valleys  as  if  with 
creamy  foam  or  snow,  soft,  thick,  motionless,  contrasting 
vividly  with  the  blue  sky  above.  Old  White  Slides  stood 
out,  gray  and  bleak  and  brilliant,  as  if  it  were  an  island 
rock  in  a  rolling  sea  of  fleece.  Far  across  this  strange, 
level  cloud-floor  rose  the  black  line  of  the  range.  Wade 
watched  the  scene  with  a  kind  of  rapture.  He  was  alone 
on  the  heights.  There  was  not  a  sound.  The  winds  were 
stilled.  But  there  seemed  a  mighty  being  awake  all! 

189 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

around  him,  in  the  presence  of  which  Wade  felt  how  little 
were  his  sorrows  and  hopes. 

Another  day  brought  dull -gray  scudding  clouds,  and 
gusts  of  wind  and  squalls  of  rain,  and  a  wailing  through 
the  bare  aspens.  It  grew  colder  and  bleaker  and  darker. 
Rain  changed  to  sleet  and  sleet  to  snow.  That  night 
brought  winter. 

Next  morning,  when  Wade  plodded  up  to  Moore's 
cabin,  it  was  through  two  feet  of  snow.  A  beautiful  glis 
tening  white  mantle  covered  valley  and  slope  and  moun 
tain,  transforming  all  into  a  world  too  dazzlingly  brilliant 
for  the  unprotected  gaze  of  man. 

When  Wade  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  cabin  and 
entered  he  awakened  the  cowboy. 

"  Morain',  Wils,"  drawled  Wade,  as  he  slapped  the  snow 
from  boots  and  legs.  "Summer  has  gone,  winter  has 
come,  an"  the  flowers  lay  in  their  graves!  How  are  you, 
boy?" 

Moore  had  grown  paler  and  thinner  during  his  long 
confinement  in  bed.  A  weary  shade  shone  in  his  face 
and  a  shadow  of  pain  in  his  eyes.  But  the  spirit  of  his 
smile  was  the  same  as  always. 

"Hello,  Bent,  old  pard!"  replied  Moore.  "I  guess  I'm 
fine.  Nearly  froze  last  night.  Didn't  sleep  much." 

"Well,  I  was  worried  about  that,"  said  the  hunter. 
"We've  got  to  arrange  things  somehow." 

"I  heard  it  snowing.  Gee !  how  the  wind  howled !  And 
I'm  snowed  in  ?" 

"Sure  are.  Two  feet  on  a  level.  It's  good  I  snaked 
down  a  lot  of  fire- wood.  Now  I'll  set  to  work  an'  cut  it 
dip  an'  stack  it  round  the  cabin.  Reckon  I'd  better  sleep 
rip  here  with  you,  Wils." 

"Won't  Old  Bill  make  a  kick?" 

'"Let  him  kick.  But  I  reckon  he  doesn't  need  to  know 

190 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

anythin'  about  it.  It  is  cold  in  here.  Well,  I'll  soon 
warm  it  up.  . . .  Here's  some  letters  Lem  got  at  Kremmlin' 
the  other  day.  You  read  while  I  rustle  some  grub  foi 
you." 

Moore  scanned  the  addresses  on  the  several  envelopes 
and  sighed. 

"From  home!    I  hate  to  read  them." 

"Why?"  queried  Wade. 

"Oh,  because  when  I  wrote  I  didn't  tell  them  I  was 
hurt.  I  feel  like  a  liar." 

"It's  just  as  well,  Wils,  because  you  swear  you'll  not 
go  home." 

"Me?  I  should  smile  not.  .  .  .  Bent — I — I — hoped 
Collie  might  answer  the  note  you  took  her  from  me." 

"Not  yet.     Wils,  give  the  lass  time." 

"Time?    Heavens!  it's  three  weeks  and  more." 

"Go  ahead  an'  read  your  letters  or  I'll  knock  you  on 
the  head  with  one  of  these  chunks,"  ordered  Wade,  mildly. 

The  hunter  soon  had  the  room  warm  and  cheerful,  with 
steaming  breakfast  on  the  red-hot  coals.  Presently,  when 
he  made  ready  to  serve  Moore,  he  was  surprised  to  find 
the  boy  crying  over  one  of  the  letters. 

"Wils,  what's  the  trouble?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing.  I— I— just  feel  bad,  that's  all,"  replied 
Moore. 

"Ahull!    So  it  seems.    Well,  tell  me  about  it?" 

"Pard,  my  father — has  forgiven  me." 

" The  old  son-of -a-gun !  Good!  What  for?  You  never 
told  me  you'd  done  anythin'." 

"I  know — but  I  did — do  a  lot.  I  was  sixteen  then. 
We  quarreled.  And  I  ran  off  up  here  to  punch  cows. 
But  after  a  while  I  wrote  home  to  mother  and  my  sister. 
Since  then  they've  tried  to  coax  me  to  come  home.  This 
letter's  from  the  old  man  himself.  Gee! .  .  .  Well,  he  says 

191 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

he's  had  to  knuckle.  That  he's  ready  to  forgive  me. 
But  I  must  come  home  and  take  charge  of  his  ranch. 
Isn't  that  great?  .  .  .  Only  I  can't  go.  And  I  couldn't — I 
couldn't  ever  ride  a  horse  again — if  I  did  go." 

''Who  says  you  couldn't?"  queried  Wade.  "I  never 
said  so.  I  only  said  you'd  never  be  a  bronco-bustin' 
cowboy  again.  Well,  suppose  you're  not?  You'll  be  able 
to  ride  a  little,  if  I  can  save  that  leg.  .  .  .  Boy,  your  letter 
is  damn  good  news.  I'm  sure  glad.  That  will  make 
Collie  happy." 

The  cowboy  had  a  better  appetite  that  morning,  which 
fact  mitigated  somewhat  the  burden  of  Wade's  worry. 
There  was  burden  enough,  however,  and  Wade  had  set 
this  day  to  make  important  decisions  about  Moore's 
injured  foot.  He  had  dreaded  to  remove  the  last  dressing 
because  conditions  at  that  time  had  been  unimproved. 
He  had  done  all  he  could  to  ward  off  the  threatened 
gangrene. 

"  Wils,  I'm  goin'  to  look  at  your  foot  an'  tell  you  things," 
declared  Wade,  when  the  dreaded  time  could  be  put  off 
no  longer. 

"Go  ahead.  .  .  .  And,  pard,  if  you  say  my  leg  has  to  be 
cut  off — why  just  pass  me  my  gun ! " 

The  cowboy's  voice  was  gay  and  bantering,  but  his  eyes 
were  alight  with  a  spirit  that  frightened  the  hunter. 

"Ahuh! ...  I  know  how  you  feel.  But,  boy,  I'd  rather 
live  with  one  leg  an'  be  loved  by  Collie  Belllounds  than 
have  nine  legs  for  some  other  lass." 

Wilson  Moore  groaned  his  helplessness. 

"Damn  you,  Bent  Wade!  You  always  say  what  kills 
me ! ...  Of  course  I  would ! " 

"Well,  lie  quiet  now,  an'  let  me  look  at  this  poor, 
messed-up  foot." 

Wade's  deft  fingers  did  not  work  with  the  usual  preci- 

192 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

sion  and  speed  natural  to  them.  But  at  last  Moore's 
injured  member  lay  bare,  discolored  and  misshapen.  The 
first  glance  made  the  hunter  quicker  in  his  movements^ 
closer  in  his  scrutiny.  Then  he  yelled  his  joy. 

"Boy,  it's  better!  No  sign  of  gangrene!  We'll  save 
your  leg!" 

"Pard,  I  never  feared  I'd  lose  that.  All  I've  feared 
was  that  I'd  be  club-footed.  .  . .  Let  me  look,"  replied  the 
cowboy,  and  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  Wade  lifted 
the  unsightly  foot. 

"My  God,  it's  crooked!"  cried  Moore,  passionately. 
"Wade,  it's  healed.  It  '11  stay  that  way  always!  I  can't 
move  it!  ...  Oh,  but  Buster  Jack's  ruined  me!" 

The  hunter  pushed  him  back  with  gentle  hands.  "  Wils, 
it  might  have  been  worse." 

"But  I  never  gave  up  hope,"  replied  Moore,  in  poignant 
grief.  "I  couldn't.  But  now!  .  .  .  How  can  you  look  at 
that — that  club-foot,  and  not  swear?" 

"Well,  well,  boy,  cussin'  won't  do  any  good.  Now 
ky  still  an*  let  me  work.  You've  had  lots  of  good  news 
this  mornin1.  So  I  think  you  can  stand  to  hear  a  little 
bad  news." 

"What!    Bad  news?"  queried  Moore,  with  a  start. 

"I  reckon.  Now  listen.  .  .  .  The  reason  Collie  hasn't 
answered  your  note  is  because  she's  been  sick  in  bed  for 
three  weeks." 

"Oh  no!"  exclaimed  the  cowboy,  in  amaze  and  distress. 

"Yes,  an'  I'm  her  doctor,"  replied  Wade,  with  pride. 
"First  off  they  had  Mrs.  Andrews.  An'  Collie  kept  askin* 
for  me.  She  was  out  of  her  head,  you  know.  An'  soon 
as  I  took  charge  she  got  better." 

"Heavens!  Collie  ill  and  you  never  told  me!"  cried 
Moore.  "  I  can't  believe  it.  She's  so  healthy  and  strong. 
What  ailed  her.  Bent?" 

193 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Well,  Mrs.  Andrews  said  it  was  nervous  breakdown. 
An*  Old  Bill  was  afraid  of  consumption.  An'  Jack  Bell- 
lounds  swore  she  was  only  shammin'." 

The  cowboy  cursed  violently. 

"Here — I  won't  tell  you  any  more  if  you're  goin'  to 
cuss  that  way  an'  jerk  around,"  protested  Wade. 

"I — I'll  shut  up,"  appealed  Moore. 

"Well,  that  puddin'-head  Jack  is  more  'n  you  called 
him,  if  you  care  to  hear  my  opinion.  .  .  .  Now,  Wils,  the 
fact  is  that  none  of  them  know  what  ails  Collie.  But  I 
know.  She'd  been  under  a  high  strain  leadin'  up  to 
October  first.  An'  the  way  that  weddin'-day  turned  out 
— with  Old  Bill  layin'  Jack  cold,  an'  with  no  marriage  at 
all — why,  Collie  had  a  shock.  An'  after  that  she  seemed 
pale  an'  tired  all  the  time  an*  she  didn't  eat  right.  Well, 
when  Buster  Jack  got  over  that  awful  punch  he'd  got  from 
the  old  man  he  made  up  to  Collie  harder  than  ever.  She 
didn't  tell  me  then,  but  I  saw  it.  An'  she  couldn't  avoid 
him,  except  by  stayin'  in  her  room,  which  she  did  a  good 
deal.  Then  Jack  showed  a  streak  of  bein'  decent.  He 
surprised  everybody,  even  Collie.  He  delighted  Old  Bill. 
But  he  didn't  pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes.  He  was  like 
a  boy  spoilin'  for  a  new  toy,  an'  he  got  crazy  over 
Collie.  He's  sure  terribly  in  love  with  her,  an'  for  days 
he  behaved  himself  in  a  way  calculated  to  make  up  for 
his  drinkin'  too  much.  It  shows  he  can  behave  himself 
when  he  wants  to.  I  mean  he  can  control  his  temper  an' 
impulse.  Anyway,  he  made  himself  so  good  that  Old 
Bill  changed  his  mind,  after  what  he  swore  that  day,  an* 
set  another  day  for  the  weddin'.  Right  off,  then,  Collie 
goes  down  on  her  back.  .  .  .  They  didn't  send  for  me  very 
soon.  But  when  I  did  get  to  see  her,  an'  felt  the  way 
she  grabbed  me — as  if  she  was  drownin' — then  I  knew 
what  ailed  her.  It  was  love." 

194 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Love!"  gasped  Moore,  breathlessly. 

"Sure.  Jest  love  for  a  dog-gone  lucky  cowboy  named 
Wils  Moore!  .  .  .  Her  heart  was  breakin',  an'  she'd  have 
died  but  for  me!  Don't  imagine,  Wils,  that  people  can't 
die  of  broken  hearts.  They  do.  I  know.  Well,  all 
Collie  needed  was  me,  an'  I  cured  her  ravin'  and  made  her 
eat,  an'  now  she's  comin'  along  fine." 

"Wade,  I've  believed  in  Heaven  since  you  came  down 
to  White  Slides,"  burst  out  Moore,  with  shining  eyes. 
"But  tell  me — what  did  you  tell  her?" 

"Well,  my  particular  medicine  first  off  was  to  whisper 
in  her  ear  that  she'd  never  have  to  marry  Jack  Belllounds. 
An'  after  that  I  gave  her  daily  doses  of  talk  about  you." 

1 '  Pard  5    She  loves  me — still  ? "  he  whispered. 

"Wils,  hers  is  the  kind  that  grows  stronger  with  time. 
I  know." 

Moore  strained  in  his  intensity  of  emotion,  and  he 
clenched  his  fists  and  gritted  his  teeth. 

"Oh  God!  this  's  hard  on  me!"  he  cried.  "I'm  a  man. 
I  love  that  girl  more  than  life.  And  to  know  she's  suffer 
ing  for  love  of  me — for  fear  of  that  marriage  being  forced 
upon  her — to  know  that  while  I  lie  here  a  helpless  cripple 
— it's  almost  unbearable." 

"Boy,  you've  got  to  mend  now.  We've  the  best  of 
hope  now — for  you — for  her — for  everythin'." 

"Wade,  I  think  I  love  you,  too,"  said  the  cowboy. 
"You're  saving  me  from  madness.  Somehow  I  have 
faith  in  you — to  do  whatever  you  want.  But  how  could 
you  tell  Collie  she'd  never  have  to  marry  Buster  Jack? " 

"Because  I  know  she  never  will,"  replied  Wade,  with 
his  slow,  gentle  smile. 

" You  know  that?" 

"Sure." 

on  earth  can  you  prevent  it?    Belllounds  will 
195 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

never  give  up  planning  that  marriage  for  his  son.  Jack 
will  nag  Collie  till  she  can't  call  her  soul  her  own.  Be 
tween  them  they  will  wear  her  down.  My  friend,  how 
can  you  prevent  it?" 

"  Wils,  fact  is,  I  haven't  reckoned  out  how  I'm  goin'  to 
save  Collie.  But  that's  no  matter.  Sufficient  unto  the 
day  is  the  evil  thereof.  I  will  do  it.  You  can  gamble  on 
me,  Wils.  You  must  use  that  hope  an'  faith  to  help  you 
get  well.  For  we  mustn't  forget  that  you're  in  more 
danger  than  Collie." 

"I  will  gamble  on  you — my  life — my  very  soul/'  re 
plied  Moore,  fervently.  "By  Heaven!  I'll  be  the  man  I 
might  have  been.  I'll  rise  out  of  despair.  I'll  even 
reconcile  myself  to  being  a  cripple." 

"An',  Wils,  will  you  rise  above  hate?"  asked  Wade, 
softly. 

"Hate!    Hate  of  whom?" 

"Jack  Belllounds." 

The  cowboy  stared,  and  his  lean,  pale  face  contracted. 

"Pard,  you  wouldn't — you  couldn't  expect  me  to — to 
forgive  him?" 

"No.  I  reckon  not.  But  you  needn't  hate  him.  I 
don't.  An'  I  reckon  I've  some  reason,  more  than  you 
could  guess.  .  .  .  Wils,  hate  is  a  poison  in  the  blood.  It's 
worse  for  him  who  feels  it  than  for  him  against  whom  it 
rages.  I  know.  .  .  .  Well,  if  you  put  thought  of  Jack  out 
of  your  mind — quit  broodin'  over  what  he  did  to  you — • 
an'  realize  that  he's  not  to  blame,  you'll  overcome  your 
hate.  For  the  son  of  Old  Bill  is  to  be  pitied.  Yes,  Jack 
Belllounds  needs  pity.  He  was  ruined  before  he  was  born. 
He  never  should  have  been  born.  An'  I  want  you  to 
understand  that,  an'  stop  ha  tin'  him.  Will  you  try?" 

"Wade,  you're  afraid  I'll  kill  him?"  whispered  Moore. 

"Sure.  That's  it.  I'm  afraid  you  might.  An'  consider 

106 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

how  hard  that  would  be  for  Columbine.  She  an'  Jack 
were  raised  sister  an'  brother,  almost.  It  would  be  hard 
on  her.  You  see,  Collie  has  a  strange  an'  powerful  sense 
of  duty  to  Old  Bill.  If  you  killed  Jack  it  would  likely 
kill  the  old  man,  an'  Collie  would  suffer  all  her  life.  You 
couldn't  cure  her  of  that.  You  want  her  to  be  happy." 

"  I  do— I  do.  Wade,  I  swear  I'll  never  kill  Buster  Jack. 
And  for  Collie's  sake  I'll  try  not  to  hate  him." 

"Well,  that's  fine.  I'm  sure  glad  to  hear  you  promise 
[that.  Now  I'll  go  out  an'  chop  some  wood.  We  mustn't 
let  the  fire  go  out  any  more." 

"Pard,  I'll  write  another  note — a  letter  to  Collie.  Hand 
me  the  blank-book  there.  And  my  pencil.  .  .  .  And  don't 
hurry  with  the  wood." 

Wade  went  outdoors  with  his  two-bladed  ax  and  shovel. 
The  wood-pile  was  a  great  mound  of  snow.  He  cleaned  a 
wide  space  and  a  path  to  the  side  of  the  cabin.  Working 
in  snow  was  not  unpleasant  for  him.  He  liked  the  clean 
ness,  the  whiteness,  the  absolute  purity  of  new-fallen  snow. 
The  air  was  crisp  and  nipping,  the  frost  crackled  under 
his  feet,  the  smoke  from  his  pipe  seemed  no  thicker  than 
the  steam  from  his  breath,  the  ax  rang  on  the  hard  aspens. 
Wade  swung  this  implement  like  a  born  woodsman.  The 
chips  flew  and  the  dead  wood  smelled  sweet.  Some  logs 
he  chopped  into  three-foot  pieces;  others  he  chopped  and 
split.  When  he  tired  a  little  of  swinging  the  ax  he  carried 
the  cut  pieces  to  the  cabin  and  stacked  them  near  the 
door.  Now  and  then  he  would  halt  a  moment  to  gaze 
away  across  the  whitened  slopes  and  rolling  hills.  The 
sense  of  his  physical  power  matched  something  within, 
and  his  heart  warmed  with  more  than  the  vigorous  exercise. 

When  he  had  worked  thus  for  about  two  hours  and  had 
stacked  a  pile  of  wood  almost  as  large  as  the  cabin  he 
considered  it  sufficient  for  the  day.  So  he  went  indoorSo 

197 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Moore  was  so  busily  and  earnestly  writing  that  he  did  not 
hear  Wade  come  in.  His  face  wore  an  eloquent  glow. 

"Say,  Wils,  are  you  writin'  a  book?"  he  inquired. 

"Hello!  Sure  I  am.  But  I'm  'most  done  now.  .  .  If 
Columbine  doesn't  answer  this  .  .  ." 

"By  the  way,  I'll  have  two  letters  to  give  her,  then — - 
for  I  never  gave  her  the  first  one,"  replied  Wade. 

"You  son-of-a-gun!" 

"Well,  hurry  along,  boy.  I'll  be  goin'  now.  Here's  a 
pole  I've  fetched  in.  You  keep  it  there,  where  you  can 
reach  it,  an'  when  the  fire  needs  more  wood  you  roll  one 
of  these  logs  on.  I'll  be  up  to-night  before  dark,  an'  if  I 
don't  fetch  you  a  letter  it  '11  be  because  I  can't  persuade 
Collie  to  write." 

"Pard,  if  you  bring  me  a  letter  I'll  obey  you — I'll  lie 
still— I'll  sleep— I'll  stand  anything." 

"  Ahuh!  Then  I'll  fetch  one,"  replied  Wade,  as  he  took 
the  little  book  and  deposited  it  in  his  pocket.  "Good-by, 
now,  an'  think  of  your  good  news  that  come  with  the 
snow." 

"Good-by,  Heaven-Sent  Hell-Bent  Wade!"  called 
Moore.  "  It's  no  joke  of  a  name  any  more.  It's  a  fact." 

Wade  plodded  down  through  the  deep  snow,  stepping 
in  his  old  tracks,  and  as  he  toiled  on  his  thoughts  were 
deep  and  comforting.  He  was  thinking  that  if  he  had 
his  life  to  live  over  again  he  would  begin  at  once  to  find 
happiness  in  other  people's  happiness.  Upon  arriving  at 
his  cabin  he  set  to  work  cleaning  a  path  to  the  dog  corral. 
The  snow  had  drifted  there  and  he  had  no  easy  task.  It 
was  well  that  he  had  built  an  inclosed  house  for  the 
hounds  to  winter  in.  Such  a  heavy  snow  as  this  one 
would  put  an  end  to  hunting  for  the  time  being.  The 
ranch  had  ample  supply  of  deer,  bear,  and  elk  meat,  all 
solidly  frozen  this  morning,  that  would  surdv  keep  well 

198 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

until  used.  Wade  reflected  that  his  tasks  round  ae 
ranch  would  be  feeding  hounds  and  stock,  chopping 
wood,  and  doing  such  chores  as  came  along  in  winter-time. 
The  pack  of  hounds,  which  he  had  thinned  out  to  a  smaller 
number,  would  be  a  care  on  his  hands.  Kane  had  be 
come  a  much-prized  possession  of  Columbine's  and  lived 
at  the  house,  where  he  had  things  his  own  way,  and 
always  greeted  Wade  with  a  look  of  disdain  and  distrust. 
Kane  would  never  forgive  the  hand  that  had  hurt  him. 
Sampson  and  Jim  and  Fox,  of  course,  shared  Wade's 
cabin,  and  vociferously  announced  his  return. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Wade  went  down  to  the  ranch- 
house.  The  snow  was  not  so  deep  there,  having  blown 
considerably  in  the  open  places.  Some  one  was  pound 
ing  iron  in  the  blacksmith  shop;  horses  were  cavorting 
in  the  corrals;  cattle  were  bawling  rovnd  the  hay-ricks 
in  the  barn-yard. 

The  hunter  knocked  on  Columbine's  door. 

^ttime  ja,"  she  called. 

Wade  entered,  to  find  her  alone.  She  was  sitting  up  in 
bed,  propped  up  with  pillows,  and  she  wore  a  warm, 
woolly  jacket  or  dressing-gown.  Her  paleness  was  now 
marked,  and  the  shadows  under  her  eyes  made  them 
appear  large  and  mournful. 

"Ben  Wade,  you  don't  care  for  me  any  more!"  she 
exclaimed,  reproachfully. 

"Why  not,  lass?"  he  asked. 

"You  were  so  long  in  coming,"  she  replied,  now  with 
petulance.  "  I  guess  now  I  don't  want  you  at  all." 

"Ahuh!  That's  the  reward  of  people  who  worry  an" 
work  for  others.  Well,  then,  I  reckon  I'll  go  back  an'  not 
give  you  what  I  brought." 

He  made  a  pretense  of  leaving,  and  he  put  a  hand  to 
his  pocket  as  if  to  insure  the  safety  of  some  artideo  Col- 

199 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

wmbine  blushed.    She  held  out  her  hands.    She  was  re 
pentant  of  her  words  and  curious  as  to  his. 

"Why,  Ben  Wade,  I  count  the  minutes  before  you 
come,"  she  said.  ''What  'd  you  bring  me?" 

"Who's  been  in  here?"  he  asked,  going  forward. 
"That's  a  poor  fire.  I'll  have  to  fix  it." 

"  Mrs.  Andrews  just  left.  It  was  good  of  her  to  drive 
up.  She  came  in  the  sled,  she  said.  Oh,  Ben,  it's  winter. 
There  was  snow  on  my  bed  when  I  woke  up.  I  think  I 
am  better  to-day.  Jack  hasn't  been  in  here  yet!" 

At  this  Wade  laughed,  and  Columbine  followed  suit. 

"Well,  you  look  a  little  sassy  to-day,  which  I  take  is  a 
good  sign,"  said  Wade.  "I've  got  some  news  that  will 
come  near  to  makin'  you  well." 

"Oh,  tell  it  quick!"  she  cried. 

"Wils  won't  lose  his  leg.  It's  gettin'  well.  An'  there 
was  a  letter  from  his  father,  forgivin'  him  for  somethin' 
he  never  told  me." 

"My  prayers  were  answered  I"  whispered  Columbine, 
and  she  closed  her  eyes  tight. 

"An'  his  father  wants  him  to  come  home  to  run  the 
ranch,"  went  on  Wade. 

"Oh!"  Her  eyes  popped  open  with  sudden  fright. 
"But  he  can't— he  won't  go?" 

"I  reckon  not.  He  wouldn't  if  he  could*  But  some 
day  he  will,  an'  take  you  home  with  him." 

Columbine  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  was 
silent  a  moment. 

"  Such  prophecies  f  They — they — M  She  could  not  con 
clude. 

"Ahuh!  I  know.  The  strange  fact  is,  lass,  that  they 
all  come  true.  I  wish  I  had  all  happy  ones,  instead  of 
them  black,  croakin'  ones  that  come  like  ravens.  , .  .  Well, 
you're  better  to-day?" 

200 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Yes.    Oh  yes.    Ben,  what  have  you  got  for  me?" 

"You're  in  an  awful  hurry.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  an' 
if  I  show  what  I've  got  then  there  will  be  no  talkin'.  You 
say  Jack  hasn't  been  in  to-day?" 

"Not  yet,  thank  goodness." 

"How  about  Old  Bill?" 

"Ben,  you  never  call  him  my  dad.  I  wish  you  would. 
When  you  don't  it  always  reminds  me  that  he's  really  not 
my  dad." 

"Ahuh!  Well,  well!"  replied  Wade,  with  his  head 
bowed.  "  It  is  just  queer  I  can  never  remember.  .  .  .  An* 
how  was  he  to-day?" 

"For  a  wonder  he  didn't  mention  poor  me.  He  was 
full  of  talk  about  going  to  Kremmling.  Means  to  take 
Jack  along.  Do  you  know,  Ben,  dad  can't  fool  me.  He's 
afraid  to  leave  Jack  here  alone  with  me.  So  dad  talked 
a  lot  about  selling  stock  an'  buying  supplies,  and  how  he 
needed  Jack  to  go,  and  so  forth.  I'm  mighty  glad  he 
means  to  take  him.  But  my!  won't  Jack  be  sore." 

"I  reckon.     It's  time  he  broke  out." 

"And  now,  dear  Ben — what  have  you  got  for  me?  I 
know  it's  from  Wilson,"  she  coaxed. 

"Lass,  would  you  give  much  for  a  little  note  from 
Wils?"  asked  Wade,  teasingly. 

"Would  I?  When  I've  been  hoping  and  praying  for 
just  that!" 

"Well,  if  you'd  give  so  much  for  a  note,  how  much 
would  you  give  me  for  a  whole  bookful  that  took  Wils 
two  hours  to  write?" 

"  Ben !  Oh,  I'd— I'd  give—"  she  cried,  wild  with  delight. 
"I'd  tor  you!" 

"You  mean  it?"  he  queried,  waving  the  book  alofto 

"  Mean  it  ?     Come  here ! ' ' 

There  was  fun  in  this  for  Wade,  but  also  a  deep  and 
14  201 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

beautiful  emotion  that  quivered  through  him.  Bending 
over  her,  he  placed  the  little  book  in  her  hand.  He  did 
not  see  clearly,  then,  as  she  pulled  him  lower  and  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek,  generously,  with  sweet,  frank  gratitude 
and  affection. 

Moments  strong  and  all-satisfying  had  been  multiply 
ing  for  Bent  Wade  of  late.  But  this  one  magnified  all. 
As  he  sat  back  upon  the  chair  he  seemed  a  little  husky  of 
voice. 

"Well,  well,  an'  so  you  kissed  ugly  old  Bent  Wade?" 

"Yes,  and  I've  wanted  to  do  it  before,"  she  retorted. 
The  dark  excitation  in  her  eyes,  the  flush  of  her  pale 
cheeks,  made  her  beautiful  then. 

"Lass,  now  you  read  your  letter  an*  answer  it.  You 
can  tear  out  the  pages.  I'll  sit  here  an'  be  makin'  out  to 
be  readin'  aloud  out  of  this  book  here,  if  any  one  happens 
in  sudden-like!" 

"Oh,  how  you  think  of  everything!" 

The  hunter  sat  beside  her  pretending  to  be  occupied 
with  the  book  he  had  taken  from  the  table  when  really  he 
was  stealing  glances  at  her  face.  Indeed,  she  was  more 
than  pretty  then.  Illness  and  pain  had  enhanced  the 
sweetness  of  her  expression.  As  she  read  on  it  was  mani 
fest  that  she  had  forgotten  the  hunter's  presence.  She 
grew  pink,  rosy,  scarlet,  radiant.  And  Wade  thrilled 
with  her  as  she  thrilled,  loved  her  more  and  more  as  she 
loved.  Moore  must  have  written  words  of  enchantment. 
Wade's  hungry  heart  suffered  a  pang  of  jealousy,  but 
would  not  harbor  it.  He  read  in  her  perusal  of  that  letter 
what  no  other  dreamed  of,  not  even  the  girl  herself;  and 
it  was  certitude  of  tragic  and  brief  life  for  her  if  she  could 
not  live  for  Wilson  Moore.  Those  moments  of  watching 
her  were  unutterably  precious  to  Wade.  He  saw  how 
some  divine  guidance  had  directed  his  footsteps  to  this 

202 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

home.  How  many  years  had  it  taken  him  to  get  there 
Columbine  read  and  read  and  reread — a  girl  with  hei 
first  love-letter.  And  for  Wade,  with  his  keen  eyes  that 
seemed  to  see  the  senses  and  the  soul,  there  shone  some 
thing  infinite  through  her  rapture.  Never  until  that  un 
guarded  moment  had  he  divined  her  innocence,  nor  had 
any  conception  been  given  him  of  the  exquisite  torture  of 
her  maiden  fears  or  the  havoc  of  love  fighting  for  itself „ 
He  learned  then  much  of  the  mystery  and  meaning  of  a 
woman's  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WILSON,— The  note  and  letter  from  y<m 
have  taken  my  breath  away.  I  couldn't  tell — 1 
wouldn't  dare  tell,  how  they  made  me  feel. 

"Your  good  news  fills  me  with  joy.  And  when  Ben 
told  me  you  wouldn't  lose  your  leg — that  you  would  get 
well — then  my  eyes  filled  and  my  heart  choked  me,  and 
I  thanked  God,  who'd  answered  my  prayers.  After  all 
the  heartache  and  dread,  it's  so  wonderful  to  find  things 
not  so  terrible  as  they  seemed.  Oh,  I  am  thankful  i 
You  have  only  to  take  care  of  yourself  now,  to  lie  patiently 
and  wait,  and  obey  Ben,  and  soon  the  time  will  have 
flown  by  and  you  will  be  well  again.  Maybe,  after  allv 
your  foot  will  not  be  so  bad.  Maybe  you  can  ride  again,, 
if  not  so  wonderfully  as  before,  then  well  enough  to  ride 
on  your  father's  range  and  look  after  his  stock.  For, 
Wilson  dear,  you'll  have  to  go  home.  It's  your  duty0 
Your  father  must  be  getting  old  now.  He  needs  youc 
He  has  forgiven  you — you  bad  boy!  And  you  are  very 
lucky.  It  almost  kills  me  to  think  of  your  leaving  White 
Slides.  But  that  is  selfish.  I'm  going  to  learn  to  be  like 
Ben  Wade.  He  never  thinks  of  himself. 

"Rest  assured,  Wilson,  that  I  will  never  marry  Jack 
Belllounds,  It  seems  years  since  that  awful  October  first, 
I  gave  my  word  then,  and  I  would  have  lived  up  to  it. 
But  I've  changed.  I'm  older.  I  see  things  differently. 
J  love  dad  as  welL  I  feel  as  sorry  for  Jack  Belllounds.  I 
Still  think  I  might  help  him.  I  still  believe  in  my  duty 

204. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

to  his  father.  But  I  can't  marry  him.  It  would  be  a 
sin.  I  have  no  right  to  marry  a  man  whom  I  do  not  love. 
When  it  comes  to  thought  of  his  touching  me,  then  I  hate 
him.  Duty  toward  dad  is  one  thing,  and  I  hold  it  high, 
but  that  is  not  reason  enough  for  a  woman  to  give  herself. 
Some  duty  to  myself  is  higher  than  that.  It's  hard  for 
me  to  tell  you — for  me  to  understand.  Love  of  you  has 
opened  my  eyes.  Still  I  don't  think  it's  love  of  you  that 
makes  me  selfish.  I'm  true  to  something  in  me  that  I 
never  knew  before.  I  could  marry  Jack,  loving  you,  and 
utterly  sacrifice  myself,  if  it  were  right.  But  it  would  be 
wrong.  I  never  realized  this  until  you  kissed  me.  Since 
then  the  thought  of  anything  that  approaches  personal 
relations —any  hint  of  intimacy  with  Jack  fills  me  with 
disgust. 

"So  I'm  not  engaged  to  Jack  Belllounds,  and  I'm  never 
going  to  be.  There  will  be  trouble  here.  I  feel  it.  I  see 
it  coming.  Dad  keeps  at  me  persistently.  He  grows  older < 
T  don't  think  he's  failing,  but  then  there's  a  loss  of  mem- 
jry,  and  an  almost  childish  obsession  in  regard  to  the 
•marriage  he  has  set  his  heart  on.  Then  his  passion  for 
Jack  seems  greater  as  he  learns  little  by  little  that  Jack 
is  not  all  he  might  be.  Wilson,  I  give  you  my  word;  I 
believe  if  dad  ever  really  sees  Jack  as  I  see  him  or  you 
see  him,  then  something  dreadful  will  happen.  In  spite 
of  everything  dad  still  believes  in  Jack.  It's  beautiful 
and  terrible.  That's  one  reason  why  I've  wanted  to  help  r 
Jack.  Well,  it's  not  to  be.  Every  day,  every  hour,  Jack 
Belllounds  grows  farther  from  me.  He  and  his  fathe* 
will  try  to  persuade  me  to  consent  to  this  marriage.  They 
may  even  try  to  force  me.  But  in  that  way  I'll  be  as 
hard  and  as  cold  as  Old  White  Slides.  No!  Never!  For 
the  rest,  I'll  do  my  duty  to  dad.  I'll  stick  to  him.  I 
could  not  engage  myself  to  you,  no  matter  how  much  I 

205 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

love  you.  And  that's  more  every  minute!  ...  So  dont 
mention  taking  me  to  your  home — don't  ask  me  again* 
Please,  Wilson;  your  asking  shook  my  very  soul!  Oh, 
how  sweet  that  would  be — your  wife ! .  . .  But  if  dad  turns 
me  away — I  don't  think  he  would.  Yet  he's  so  strange 
and  like  iron  for  all  concerning  Jack.  If  ever  he  turned 
me  out  I'd  have  no  home.  I'm  a  waif,  you  know.  Then 
— then,  Wilson  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  horrible  to  be  in  the  position 
I'm  in.  I  won't  say  any  more.  You'll  understand,  dear. 

"It's  your  love  that  awoke  me,  and  it's  Ben  Wade  who 
has  saved  me.  Wilson,  I  love  him  almost  as  I  do  dad, 
only  strangely.  Do  you  know  I  believe  he  had  something 
to  do  with  Jack  getting  drunk  that  awful  October  first. 
I  don't  mean  Ben  would  stoop  to  get  Jack  drunk.  But 
he  might  have  cunningly  put  that  opportunity  in  Jack's 
way.  Drink  is  Jack's  weakness,  as  gambling  is  his  pas 
sion.  Well,  I  know  that  the  liquor  was  some  fine  old 
stuff  which  Ben  gave  to  the  cowboys.  And  it's  signifi 
cant  now  how  Jack  avoids  Ben.  He  hates  him.  He's 
afraid  of  him.  He's  jealous  because  Ben  is  so  much  with 
me.  I've  heard  Jack  rave  to  dad  about  this.  But  dad 
is  just  to  others,  if  he  can't  be  to  his  son. 

"And  so  I  want  you  to  know  that  it's  Ben  Wade  who 
has  saved  me.  Since  I've  been  sick  I've  learned  more  of 
Ben.  He's  like  a  woman.  He  understands.  I  never 
have  to  tell  him  anything.  You,  Wilson,  were  sometimes 
stupid  or  stubborn  (forgive  me)  about  little  things  that 
girls  feel  but  can't  explain.  Ben  knows.  I  tell  you  this 
because  I  want  you  to  understand  how  and  why  I  love 
him.  I  think  I  love  him  most  for  his  goodness  to  you. 
Dear  boy,  if  I  hadn't  loved  you  before  Ben  Wade  came 
I'd  have  fallen  in  love  with  you  since,  just  listening  to 
his  talk  of  you.  But  this  will  make  you  conceited.  So 
111  go  on  about  Ben.  He's  our  friend.  Why,  Wilson^ 

206 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

that  sweetness,  softness,  gentleness  about  him,  the  heart 
that  makes  him  love  us,  that  must  be  only  the  woman 
in  him.  I  don't  know  what  a  mother  would  feel  like,  but 
I  do  know  that  I  seem  strangely  happier  since  I've  con 
fessed  my  troubles  to  this  man.  It  was  Lem  who  told 
me  how  Ben  offered  to  be  a  friend  to  Jack.  And  Jack 
flouted  him.  I've  a  queer  notion  that  the  moment  Jack 
did  this  he  turned  his  back  on  a  better  life. 

"To  repeat,  then,  Ben  Wade  is  our  friend,  and  to  me 
something  more  that  I've  tried  to  exptein.  Maybe  telling 
you  this  will  make  you  think  more  of  him  and  listen  to 
his  advice.  I  hope  so.  Did  any  boy  and  girl  ever  before 
so  need  a  friend?  I  need  that  something  he  instils  in  me. 
If  I  lost  it  I'd  be  miserable.  And,  Wilson,  I'm  such  a 
coward.  I'm  so  weak.  I  have  such  sinkings  and  burn 
ings  and  tossings.  Oh,  I'm  only  a  woman!  But  I'll  die 
fighting.  That  is  what  Ben  Wade  instils  into  me.  While 
there  was  life  this  strange  little  man  would  never  give  up 
hope.  He  makes  me  feel  that  he  knows  more  than  he 
tells.  Through  him  I  shall  get  the  strength  to  live  up  to 
my  convictions,  to  be  true  to  myself,  to  be  faithful  to  you. 

"With  love, 

"  COLUMBINE.** 

"December  3d. 

"DEAREST  COLLIE, — Your  last  was  only  a  note,  and  I 
told  Wade  if  he  didn't  fetch  more  than  a  note  next  time 
there  would  be  trouble  roond  this  bunk-house.  And  then 
he  brought  your  letter! 

"I'm  feeling  exuberant  (I  think  it's  that)  to-day.  First 
time  I've  been  up.  Collie,  I'm  able  to  get  up!  WHOOFEE! 
I  walk  with  a  crutch,  and  don't  dare  put  my  foot  down. 
Not  that  it  hurts,  but  that  my  boss  would  have  a  fit !  I'm 
glad  you've  stopped  heaping  praise  upon  our  friend  Ben. 

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THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Because  now  I  can  get  over  my  jealousy  and  be  half  de 
cent.  He's  the  whitest  man  I  ever  knew. 

"Now  listen,  Collie.  I've  had  ideas  lately.  I've  begun 
to  eat  and  get  stronger  and  to  feel  good.  The  pain  is 
gone.  And  to  think  I  swore  to  Wade  I'd  forgive  Jack 
Belllounds  and  never  hate  him — or  kill  him!  .  .  .  There, 
that's  letting  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  and  it's  done  now. 
But  no  matter.  The  truth  is,  though,  that  I  never  could 
stop  hating  Jack  while  the  pain  lasted.  Now  I  could 
shake  hands  with  him  and  smile  at  him. 

"Well,  as  I  said,  I've  ideas.  They're  great.  Grab  hold 
of  the  pommel  now  so  you  won't  get  thrown!  I'm  going 
to  pitch !  .  .  .  When  I  get  well — able  to  ride  and  go  about, 
which  Ben  says  will  be  in  the  spring — I'll  send  for  my 
father  to  come  to  White  Slides.  He'll  come.  Then  I'll 
tell  him  everything,  and  if  Ben  and  I  can't  win  him  to 
our  side  then  you  can.  Father  never  could  resist  you. 
When  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  you,  which  won't  take 
long,  then  we'll  go  to  old  Bill  Belllounds  and  lay  the  case 
before  him.  Are  you  still  in  the  saddle,  Collie? 

"Well,  if  you  are,  be  sure  to  get  a  better  hold,  for  I'm 
going  to  run  some  next.  Ben  Wade  approved  of  my 
plan.  He  says  Belllounds  can  be  brought  to  reason. 
He  says  he  can  make  him  see  the  ruin  for  everybody  were 
you  forced  to  marry  Jack.  Strange,  Collie,  how  Wade 
included  himself  with  you,  me,  Jack,  and  the  old  man, 
in  the  foreshadowed  ruin !  Wade  is  as  deep  as  the  canon 
there.  Sometimes  when  he's  uioughtful  he  gives  me  a 
creepy  feeling.  At  others,  when  he  comes  out  with  one 
of  his  easy,  cool  assurances  that  we  are  all  right — that 
we  will  get  each  other — why,  then  something  grim  takes 
possession  of  me.  I  believe  him,  I'm  happy,  but  there 
crosses  my  mind  a  fleeting  realization — not  of  what  our 
friend  is  now,  but  what  he  has  been.  And  it  disturos  me, 

208 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

chills  me.  I  don't  understand  it.  For,  Collie,  though  I 
understand  your  feeling  of  what  he  is,  I  don't  understand 
mine.  You  see,  I'm  a  man.  I've  been  a  cowboy  for  ten 
years  and  more.  I've  seen  some  hard  experiences  and 
worked  with  a  good  many  rough  boys  and  men.  Cow 
boys,  Indians,  Mexicans,  miners,  prospectors,  ranchers, 
hunters — some  of  whom  were  bad  medicine.  So  I've 
come  to  see  men  as  you  couldn't  see  them.  And  Bent 
Wade  has  been  everything  a  man  could  be.  He  seems 
all  men  in  one.  And  despite  all  his  kindness  and  good 
ness  and  hopefulness,  there  is  the  sense  I  have  of  some 
thing  deadly  and  terrible  and  inevitable  in  him. 

"It  makes  my  heart  almost  stop  beating  to  know  I 
have  this  man  on  my  side.  Because  I  sense  in  him  the 
man  element,  the  physical — oh,  I  can't  put  it  in  words,  but 
I  mean  something  great  in  him  that  can't  be  beaten. 
What  he  says  must  come  true!  .  .  .  And  so  I've  already 
begun  to  dream  and  to  think  of  you  as  my  wife.  If  you 
ever  are — no!  when  you  are,  then  I  will  owe  it  to  Bent 
Wade.  No  man  ever  owed  another  for  so  precious  a  gift. 
But,  Collie,  I  can't  help  a  little  vague  dread — of  what,  I 
don't  know,  unless  it's  a  sense  of  the  possibilities  of  Hell- 
Bent  Wade.  .  .  .  Dearest,  I  don't  want  ho  worry  you  or 
frighten  you,  and  I  can't  follow  out  my  own  gloomy 
fancies.  Don't  you  mind  too  much  what  I  think.  Only 
you  must  realize  that  Wade  is  the  greatest  factor  in  our 
hopes  of  the  future.  My  faith  in  him  is  so  unshakable 
that  it's  foolish.  Next  to  you  I  love  him  best.  He  seems 
even  dearer  to  me  than  my  own  people.  He  has  made 
me  look  at  life  differently.  Likewise  he  has  inspired  you. 
But  you,  dearest  Columbine,  are  only  a  sensitive,  delicate 
girl,  a  frail  and  tender  thing  like  the  columbine  flowers  of 
the  hills.  And  for  your  own  sake  you  must  not  be  blind 
to  what  Wade  is  capable  of.  If  you  keep  on  loving  him 

209 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  idealizing  him,  blind  to  what  has  made  him  great, 
that  is,  blind  to  the  tragic  side  of  him,  then  if  he  did 
something  terrible  here  for  you  and  for  me  the  shock 
would  be  bad  for  you.  Lord  knows  I  have  no  suspicions 
of  Wade.  I  have  no  clear  ideas  at  all.  But  I  do  know 
that  for  you  he  would  not  stop  at  anything.  He  loves 
you  as  much  as  I  do,  only  differently.  Such  power  a  pale, 
sweet-f aced  girl  has  over  the  lives  of  men ! 
"Good-by  for  this  time. 

"Faithfully, 

"WILSON." 

11  January  loth. 

"DEAR  WILSON, — In  every  letter  I  tell  you  I'm  better! 
Why,  pretty  soon  there'll  be  nothing  left  to  say  about  my 
health.  I've  been  up  and  around  now  for  days,  but  only 
lately  have  I  begun  to  gain.  Since  Jack  has  been  away 
I'm  getting  fat.  I  eat,  and  that's  one  reason  I  suppose. 
Then  I  move  around  more. 

"  You  ask  me  to  tell  you  all  I  do.  Goodness !  I  couldn't 
and  I  wouldn't.  You  are  getting  mighty  bossy  since 
you're  able  to  hobble  around,  as  you  call  it.  But  you 
can't  boss  me!  However,  I'll  be  nice  and  tell  you  a  little. 
I  don't  work  very  much.  I've  helped  dad  with  his 
accounts,  all  so  hopelessly  muddled  since  he  let  Jack 
keep  the  books.  I  read  a  good  deal.  Your  letters  are 
worn  out !  Then,  when  it  snows,  I  sit  by  the  window  and 
watch.  I  love  to  see  the  snowflakes  fall,  so  fleecy  and 
white  and  soft!  But  I  don't  like  the  snowy  world  after 
the  storm  has  passed.  I  shiver  and  hug  the  fire.  I  must 
have  Indian  in  me.  On  moonlit  nights  to  look  out  at  Old 
White  Slides,  so  cold  and  icy  and  grand,  and  over  the 
white  hills  and  ranges,  makes  me  shudder.  I  don't  know 
why.  It's  all  beautiful.  But  it  seems  to  me  like  death, 

210 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

. . .  Well,  I  sit  idly  a  lot  and  think  of  you  and  how  terribtj 
big  my  love  has  grown,  and  .  .  .  but  that's  all  about  that? 

"As  you  know,  Jack  has  been  gone  since  before  New 
Year's  Day.  He  said  he  was  going  to  Kremmling.  But 
dad  heard  he  went  to  Elgeria.  Well,  I  didn't  tell  you 
that  dad  and  Jack  quarreled  over  money.  Jack  kept  up 
his  good  behavior  for  so  long  that  I  actually  believed  he'd 
changed  for  the  better.  He  kept  at  me,  not  so  much  on 
the  marriage  question,  but  to  love  him.  W;lson,  he 
nearly  drove  me  frantic  with  his  lovemaking.  Finally  I 
got  mad  and  I  pitched  into  him.  Oh,  I  convinced  him! 
Then  he  came  back  to  his  own  self  again.  Like  a  flash 
he  was  Buster  Jack  once  more.  "You  can  go  to  hell!" 
he  yelled  at  me.  And  such  a  look ! .  . .  Well,  he  went  out, 
and  that's  when  he  quarreled  with  dad.  It  was  about 
money.  I  couldn't  help  but  hear  some  of  it.  I  don't 
know  whether  or  not  dad  gave  Jack  money,  but  I  think 
he  didn't.  Anyway,  Jack  went. 

"  Dad  was  all  right  for  a  few  days.  Really,  he  seemed 
nicer  and  kinder  for  Jack's  absence.  Then  all  at  once  he 
sank  into  the  glooms.  I  couldn't  cheer  him  up.  When 
Ben  Wade  came  in  after  supper  dad  always  got  him  to 
tell  some  of  those  terrible  stories.  You  know  what  per 
fectly  terrible  stories  Ben  can  tell.  Well,  dad  had  to 
hear  the  worst  ones.  And  poor  me,  I  didn't  want  to  lis 
ten,  but  I  couldn't  resist.  Ben  can  tell  stories.  And  ohe 
what  he's  lived  through! 

"I  got  the  idea  it  wasn't  Jack's  absence  so  much  that 
made  dad  sit  by  the  hour  before  the  fire,  staring  at  the 
coals,  sighing,  and  looking  so  God-forsaken.  My  heart 
just  aches  for  dad.  He  broods  and  broods.  He'll  break 
out  some  day,  and  then  I  don't  want  to  be  here.  There 
doesn  t  seem  to  be  any  idea  when  Jack  will  come  home. 
He  might  never  come.  But  Ben  says  he  will.  He  says 

211 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Jack  hates  work  and  that  he  couldn't  be  gambler  enough 
or  wicked  enough  to  support  himself  without  working. 
Can't  you  hear  Ben  Wade  say  that?  'I'll  tell  you/  he 
begins,  and  then  comes  a  prophecy  of  trouble  or  evil. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  think  how  he  used  to  say:  'Wait! 
Don't  give  up !  Nothin'  is  ever  so  bad  as  it  seems  at  first! 
Be  true  to  what  your  heart  says  is  right!  It's  never  too 
late!  Love  is  the  only  good  in  life!  Love  each  other 
and  wait  and  trust !  It  '11  all  come  right  in  the  end ! '  .  .  . 
And,  Wilson,  I'm  bound  to  confess  that  both  his  sense  of 
calamity  and  his  hope  of  good  seem  infallible.  Ben  Wade 
is  supernatural.  Sometimes,  just  for  a  moment,  I  dare 
to  let  myself  believe  in  what  he  says — that  our  dream  will 
come  true  and  I'll  be  yours.  Then  oh!  oh!  oh!  joy  and 
stars  and  bells  and  heaven!  I — I  .  .  .  But  what  am  I 
writing  ?  Wilson  Moore,  this  is  quite  enough  for  to-day. 
Take  care  you  don't  believe  I'm  so — so  very  much  in  love. 

"Ever, 

"  COLUMBINE." 

" February  — . 

"  DEAREST  COLLIE, — I  don't  know  the  date,  but  spring's 
coming.  To-day  I  kicked  Bent  Wade  with  my  once  sore 
foot.  It  didn't  hurt  me,  but  hurt  Wade's  feelings.  He 
says  there'll  be  no  holding  me  soon.  I  should  say  not. 
I'll  eat  you  up.  I'm  as  hungry  as  the  mountain-lion  that's 
been  prowling  round  my  cabin  of  nights.  He's  sure 
starved.  Wade  tracked  him  to  a  hole  in  the  cliff. 

"Collie,  I  can  get  around  first  rate.  Don't  need  my 
crutch  any  more.  I  can  make  a  fire  and  cook  a  meal. 
Wade  doesn't  think  so,  but  I  do.  He  says  if  I  want  to 
hold  your  affection,  not  to  let  you  eat  anything  I  cook.  I 
can  rustle  around,  too.  Haven't  been  far  yet.  My  stock 
has  wintered  fairly  well.  This  valley  is  sheltered,  you 

212 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

know.  Snow  hasn't  been  too  deep.  Then  I  bought  hay 
from  Andrews.  I'm  hoping  for  spring  now,  and  the  good 
old  sunshine  on  the  gray  sage  hills.  And  summer,  with 
its  columbines !  Wade  has  gone  back  to  his  own  cabin  to 
sleep.  I  miss  him.  But  I'm  glad  to  have  the  nights  alone 
once  more.  I've  got  a  future  to  plan!  Read  that  over, 
Collie. 

"To-day,  when  Wade  came  with  your  letter,  he  asked 
me,  sort  of  queer,  'Say,  Wils,  do  you  know  how  many 
letters  I've  fetched  you  from  Collie?'  I  said,  'Lord,  no, 
I  don't,  but  they're  a  lot.'  Then  he  said  there  were  just 
forty-seven  letters.  Forty-seven!  I  couldn't  believe  it, 
and  told  him  he  was  crazy.  I  never  had  such  good  fort 
une.  Well,  he  made  me  count  them,  and,  dog-gone  it, 
he  was  right.  Forty-seven  wonderful  love-letters  from  the 
sweetest  girl  on  earth!  But  think  of  Wade  remembering 
every  one!  It  beats  me.  He's  beyond  understanding. 

"So  Jack  Belllounds  still  stays  away  from  White  Slides* 
Collie,  I'm  sure  sorry  for  his  father.  What  it  would  be 
to  have  a  son  like  Buster  Jack!  My  God!  But  for  your 
sake  I  go  around  yelling  and  singing  like  a  locoed  Indian. 
Pretty  soon  spring  will  come.  Then,  you  wild-flower  of 
the  hills,  you  girl  with  the  sweet  mouth  and  the  sad  eyes- 
then  I'm  coming  after  you!  And  all  the  king's  horses 
and  all  the  king's  men  can  never  take  you  away  from  me 
again! 

"Your  faithful 

"WILSON." 

''March  iQth* 

"DEAREST  WILSON, — Your  last  letters  have  been  read 
and  reread,  and  kept  under  my  pillow,  and  have  beec 
both  my  help  and  my  weakness  during  these  trying  day? 
since  Jack's  return. 

213 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"It  has  not  been  that  I  was  afraid  to  write — though, 
Heaven  knows,  if  this  letter  should  fall  into  the  hands  of 
dad  it  would  mean  trouble  for  me,  and  if  Jack  read  it — 
I  am  afraid  to  think  of  that!  I  just  have  not  had  the 
heart  to  write  you.  But  all  the  time  I  knew  I  must  write 
and  that  I  would.  Only,  now,  what  to  say  tortures  me. 
I  am  certain  that  confiding  in  you  relieves  me.  That's 
why  I've  told  you  so  much.  But  or  late  I  find  it  harder 
to  tell  what  I  know  about  Jack  Belllounds.  Fm  in  a  queer 
state  of  mind,  Wilson  dear.  And  you'll  wonder,  and 
you'll  be  sorry  to  know  I  haven't  seen  much  of  Ben  lately 
— that  is,  not  to  talk  to.  It  seems  I  can't  bear. his  faith  in 
me,  his  hope,  his  love — when  lately  matters  have  driven 
me  into  torturing  doubt. 

"But  lest  you  might  misunderstand,  I'm  going  to  try 
to  tell  you  something  of  what  is  on  my  mind,  and  I  want 
you  to  read  it  to  Ben.  He  has  been  hurt  by  my  strange 
reluctance  to  be  with  him. 

"Jack  came  home  on  the  night  of  March  second. 
You'll  remember  that  day,  so  gloomy  and  dark  and 
dreary.  It  snowed  and  sleeted  and  rained.  I  remember 
how  the  rain  roared  on  the  roof.  It  roared  so  loud  we 
didn't  hear  the  horse.  But  we  heard  heavy  boots  on  the 
porch  outside  the  living-room,  and  the  swish  of  a  slickef 
thrown  to  the  floor.  There  was  a  bright  fire.  Dad  looked 
up  with  a  wild  joy.  All  of  a  sudden  he  changed.  He 
blazed.  He  recognized  the  heavy  tread  of  his  son.  If  I 
ever  pitied  and  loved  him  it  was  then.  I  thought  of  the 
return  of  the  Prodigal  Son!  „  .  .  There  came  a  knock  on 
the  door.  Then  clad  recovered.  He  threw  it  open  wide. 
The  streaming  light  Ml  upon  Jack  Belllounds,  indeed,  but 
not  as  I  knew  him.  He  entered.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  ever  saw  Jack  look  in  the  least  like  a  man<  He  was 
palev  haggard,  much  older,  sullen,  and  bold»  He  strode 

214 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

in  with  a  'Howdy,  folks,'  and  threw  his  wet  hat  on  the 
Qoor,  and  walked  to  the  fire.  His  boots  were  soaked  with 
water  and  mud.  His  clothes  began  to  steam. 

"When  I  looked  at  dad  I  was  surprised.  He  seemed 
cool  and  bright,  with  the  self-contained  force  usual  for 
him  when  something  critical  is  about  to  happen. 

" '  Ahuh !     So  you  come  back,'  he  said. 

'"Yes,  I'm  home,'  replied  Jack. 

" '  Wai,  it  took  you  quite  a  spell  to  get  hyar.' 

" '  Do  you  want  me  to  stay  ? ' 

"This  question  from  Jack  seemed  to  stump  dad.  He 
stared.  Jack  had  appeared  suddenly,  and  his  manner 
was  different  from  that  with  which  he  used  to  face  dad. 
He  had  something  up  his  sleeve,  as  the  cowboys  say.  He 
wore  an  air  of  defiance  and  indifference. 

'"I  reckon  I  do,'  replied  dad,  deliberately.  'What  do 
you  mean  by  askin'  me  thet?' 

" '  I'm  of  age,  long  ago.  You  can't  make  me  stay  home. 
I  can  do  as  I  like.' 

"' Ahuh !  I  reckon  you  think  you  can.  But  not  hyar  at 
White  Slides.  If  you  ever  expect  to  get  this  property 
you'll  not  do  as  you  like.' 

"'To  hell  with  that.  I  don't  care  whether  I  ever  get 
it  or  not.' 

"Dad's  face  went  as  white  as  a  sheet.  He  seemed 
shocked.  After  a  moment  he  told  me  I'd  better  go  to 
my  room.  I  was  about  to  go  when  Jack  said:  'No,  let 
her  stay.  She'd  best  hear  now  what  I've  got  to  say.  It 
concerns  her.' 

"So  ho!  Then  you've  got  a  heap  to  say?'  exclaimed 
dad,  queerly.  'All  right,  you  have  your  say  first.' 

"Jack  then  began  to  talk  in  a  level  and  monotonous 
voice,  so  unlike  him  that  I  sat  there  amazed.  He  told 
how  early  in  the  winter,  before  he  left  the  ranch,  he  had 

215 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

found  out  that  he  was  honestly  in  love  with  me.  That 
it  had  changed  him — made  him  see  he  had  never  been 
any  good — and  inflamed  him  with  the  resolve  to  be  better. 
He  had  tried.  He  had  succeeded.  For  six  weeks  he  had 
been  all  that  could  have  been  asked  of  any  young  man. 
I  am  bound  to  confess  that  he  was!  .  .  .  Well,  he  went  on 
to  say  how  he  had  fought  it  out  with  himself  until  he 
absolutely  knew  he  could  control  himself.  The  courage 
and  inspiration  had  come  from  his  love  for  me.  That 
was  the  only  good  thing  he'd  ever  felt.  He  wanted  dad 
and  he  wanted  me  to  understand  absolutely,  without  any 
doubt,  that  he  had  found  a  way  to  hold  on  to  his  good 
intentions  and  good  feelings.  And  that  was  for  me!  .  .  . 
I  was  struck  all  a-tremble  at  the  truth.  It  was  true! 
Well,  then  he  forced  me  to  a  decision.  .Forced  me,  with 
out  ever  hinting  of  this  change,  this  possibility  in  him. 
I  had  told  him  I  couldn't  love  him.  Never!  Then  he 
said  I  could  go  to  hell  and  he  gave  up.  Failing  to  get 
money  from  dad  he  stole  it,  without  compunction  and 
without  regret!  He  had  gone  to  Kremmling,  then  to 
Elgeria. 

14 '  I  let  myself  go,'  he  said,  without  shame,  'and  I  drank 
and  gambled.  When  I  was  drunk  I  didn't  remember 
Collie.  But  when  I  was  sober  I  did.  And  she  haunted 
me.  That  grew  worse  all  the  time.  So  I  drank  to  forget 
her.  .  .  .  The  money  lasted  a  great  deal  longer  than  I 
expected.  But  that  was  because  I  won  as  much  as  I 
lost,  until  lately.  Then  I  borrowed  a  good  deal  from  those 
men  I  gambled  with,  but  mostly  from  ranchers  who  knew 
my  father  would  be  responsible.  ...  I  had  a  shooting-scrape 
with  a  man  named  Elbert,  in  Smith's  place  at  Elgeria. 
We  quarreled  over  cards.  He  cheated.  And  when  I  hit 
him  he  drew  on  me.  But  he  missed.  Then  I  shot  him. 
.  .  .  He  lived  three  days — and  died.  That  sobered  me. 

216 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

And  once  more  there  came  to  me  truth  of  what  I  might 
have  been.  I  went  back  to  Kremmling.  And  I  tried  my 
self  out  again.  I  worked  awhile  for  Judson,  who  was  the 
rancher  I  had  borrowed  most  from.  At  night  I  went  into 
town  and  to  the  saloons,  where  I  met  my  gambling 
cronies.  I  put  myself  in  the  atmosphere  of  drink  and 
cards.  And  I  resisted  both.  I  could  make  myself  in 
different  to  both.  As  soon  as  I  was  sure  of  myself  I  de 
cided  to  come  home.  And  here  I  am.' 

"This  long  speech  of  Jack's  had  a  terrible  effect  upon 
me.  I  was  stunned  and  sick.  But  if  it  did  that  to  me 
what  did  it  do  to  dad?  Heaven  knows,  I  can't  tell  you. 
Dad  gave  a  lurch,  *\nd  a  great  heave,  as  if  at  the  removal 
of  a  rope  that  had  all  but  strangled  him. 

"'Ahuh-huh!'  he  groaned.  'An'  now  you're  hyar — 
what's  thet  mean?' 

"'It  means  that  it's  not  yet  too  late,'  replied  Jack. 
'Don't  misunderstand  me.  I'm  not  repenting  with  that 
side  of  me  which  is  bad.  But  I've  sobered  up.  I've  had 
a  shock.  I  see  my  ruin.  I  still  love  you,  dad,  despite—- 
the  cruel  thin^  you  did  to  me.  I'm  your  son  and  I'd  like 
to  make  up  to  you  for  all  my  shortcomings.  And  so  help 
me  Heaven!  I  can  do  that,  and  will  do  it,  if  Collie  will 
marry  me.  Not  only  marry  me — that  'd  not  be  enough 
— but  love  me —  I'm  crazy  for  her  love.  It's  terrible/ 

" '  You  spoiled  weaklin' ! '  thundered  dad.  '  How  'n  hell 
can  I  believe  you?1 

"'Because  I  know  it/  declared  Jack,  standing  right  up 
to  his  father,  white  and  unflinching. 

"Then  dad  broke  out  in  such  a  rage  that  I  sat  there 
scared  so  stiff  I  could  not  move.  My  heart  beat  thick 
and  heavy.  Dad  got  livid  of  face,  his  hair  stood  up,  his 
eyes  rolled.  He  called  Jack  every  name  I  ever  heard  any 
one  call  him,  and  then  a  thousand  more0  Then  he  cursed 
'*  217 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

him.  Such  dreadful  curses!  Oh,  how  sad  and  terrible  to 
hear  dad! 

"'Right  you  are!'  cried  Jack,  bitter  and  hard  and  ring 
ing  of  voice.  'Right,  by  God!  But  am  I  all  to  blame? 
Did  I  bring  myself  here  on  this  earth !  .  .  .  There's  some 
thing  wrong  in  me  that's  not  all  my  fault.  .  .  .  You  can't 
ohame  me  or  scare  me  or  hurt  me.  I  could  fling  in  your 
face  those  damned  three  years  of  hell  you  sent  me  to! 
But  what's  the  use  for  you  to  roar  at  me  or  for  me  to 
reproach  you?  I'm  ruined  unless  you  give  me  Collie — 
make  her  love  me.  That  will  save  me.  And  I  want  it 
for  your  sake  and  hers — not  for  my  own.  Even  if  I  do 
love  her  madly  I'm  not  wanting  her  for  that.  I'm  no 
good.  I'm  not  fit  to  touch  her.  ...  I've  just  come  to  tell 
you  the  truth.  I  feel  for  Collie — I'd  do  for  Collie — as  you 
did  for  my  mother!  Can't  you  understand?  I'm  your 
son.  I've  some  of  you  in  me.  And  I've  found  out  what 
it  is.  Do  you  and  Collie  want  to  take  me  at  my  word  ? ' 

"I  think  it  took  dad  longer  to  read  something  strange 
and  convincing  in  Jack  than  it  took  me.  Anyway,  dad 
got  the  stunning  consciousness  that  Jack  knew  by  some 
divine  or  intuitive  power  that  his  reformation  was  inevi 
table,  if  I  loved  him.  Never  have  I  had  such  a  distressing 
and  terrible  moment  as  that  revelation  brought  to  me! 
I  felt  the  truth.  I  could  save  Jack  Belllounds.  No 
woman  is  ever  fooled  at  such  critical  moments  of  life. 
Ben  Wade  once  said  that  I  could  have  reformed  Jack  were 
it  possible  to  love  him.  Now  the  truth  of  that  came  home 
to  me,  and  somehow  it  was  overwhelming. 

"Dad  received  this  truth — and  it  was  beyond  me  to 
realize  what  it  meant  to  him.  He  must  have  seen  all  his 
earlier  hopes  fulfilled,  his  pride  vindicated,  his  shame  for 
gotten,  his  love  rewarded.  Yet  he  must  have  seen  all 
that,  as  would  a  man  leaning  with  one  foot  over  a  bottom- 

218 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

less  abyss.  He  looked  transfigured,  yet  conscious  of  ter 
rible  peril.  His  great  heart  seemed  to  leap  to  meet  luis 
last  opportunity,  with  all  forgiveness,  with  all  gratitude; 
but  his  will  yielded  with  a  final  and  irrevocable  resolve. 
A  resolve  dark  and  sinister! 

"He  raised  his  huge  fists  higher  and  higher,  and  all  his 
body  lifted  and  strained,  towering  and  trembling,  while 
his  face  was  that  of  a  righteous  and  angry  god. 

"'My  son,  I  take  your  word!'  he  rolled  out,  his  voice 
filling  the  room  and  reverberating  through  the  house.  '  I 
give  you  Collie!  .  .  .  She  will  be  yours!  .  .  .  But,  by  the 
love  I  bore  your  mother — I  swear — if  you  ever  steal  a^ain 
—I'll  kill  you!' 

"I  can't  say  any  more — 

"COLUMBINE  " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

OPRING  came  early  that  year  at  White  Slides  Ranch. 
^  The  snow  melted  off  the  valleys,  and  the  wild 
flowers  peeped  from  the  greening  grass  while  yet  the 
mountain  domes  were  white.  The  long  stone  slides  were 
glistening  wet,  and  the  brooks  ran  full-banked,  noisy  and 
turbulent  and  roily. 

Soft  and  fresh  of  color  the  gray  old  sage  slopes  came 
out  from  under  their  winter  mantle;  the  bleached  tufts 
of  grass  waved  in  the  wind  and  showed  tiny  blades  of 
green  at  the  roots;  the  aspens  and  oaks,  and  the  vines  on 
fences  and  cliffs,  and  the  round-clumped,  brook-bordering 
willows  took  on  a  hue  of  spring. 

The  mustangs  and  colts  in  the  pastures  snorted  and  ran 
and  kicked  and  cavorted;  and  on  the  hillsides  the  cows 
began  to  climb  higher,  searching  for  the  tender  greens, 
bawling  for  the  new-born  calves.  Eagles  shrieked  the 
release  of  the  snow-bound  peaks,  and  the  elks  bugled  their 
piercing  calls.  The  grouse-cocks  spread  their  gorgeous 
brown  plumage  in  parade  before  their  twittering  mates, 
and  the  jays  screeched  in  the  woods,  and  the  sage-hens 
sailed  along  the  bosom  of  the  gray  slopes. 

Black  bears,  and  browns,  and  grizzlies  came  out  of  their 
winter's  sleep,  and  left  huge,  muddy  tracks  on  the  trails; 
the  timber  wolves  at  dusk  mourned  their  hungry  calls  for 
life,  for  meat,  for  the  wildness  that  was  passing;  the  coy 
otes  yelped  at  sunset,  joyous  and  sharp  and  impudent. 

But  winter  yielded  reluctantly  its  hold  on  the  moun- 

220 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

tains.  The  black,  scudding  clouds,  and  the  squalls  of  rain 
and  sleet  and  snow,  whitening  and  melting  and  vanishing/ 
and  the  cold,  clear  nights,  with  crackling  frost,  all  retarded 
the  work  of  the  warming  sun.  The  day  came,  however, 
when  the  greens  held  their  own  with  the  grays;  and  this 
was  the  assurance  of  nature  that  spring  could  not  be 
denied,  and  that  summer  would  follow. 

Bent  Wade  was  hiding  in  the  willows  along  the  trail 
that  followed  one  of  the  brooks.  Of  late,  on  several  morn 
ings,  he  had  skulked  like  an  Indian  under  cover,  watching 
for  some  one.  On  this  morning,  when  Columbine  Bell- 
lounds  came  riding  along,  he  stepped  out  into  the  trail  in 
front  of  her. 

"Oh,  Ben!  you  startled  me!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  held 
hard  on  the  frightened  horse. 

"Good  mornin',  Collie,"  replied  Wade.  "I'm  sorry  to 
scare  you,  but  I'm  particular  anxious  to  see  you.  An* 
considerin'  how  you  avoid  me  these  days,  I  had  to  way 
lay  you  in  regular  road -agent  style." 

Wade  gazed  up  searchingly  at  her.  It  had  been  some 
time  since  he  had  been  given  the  privilege  and  pleasure  of 
seeing  her  close  at  hand.  He  needed  only  one  look  at 
her  to  confirm  his  fears.  The  pale,  sweet,  resolute  face 
told  him  much. 

"Well,  now  you've  waylaid  me,  what  do  you  want?" 
she  queried,  deliberately. 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  you  to  see  Wils  Moore,"  replied 
Wade,  watching  her  closely. 

"No!"  she  cried,  with  the  red  staining  her  temples. 

"Collie,  see  here.  Did  I  ever  oppose  anythin*  you 
wanted  to  do?" 

"Not— yet,"  she  said. 

"I  reckon  you  expect  me  to?" 

221 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

She  did  not  answer  that.  Her  eyes  drooped,  &nd  she 
nervously  twisted  the  bridle  reins. 

"Do  you  doubt  my — my  good  intentions  toward  you 
— my  love  for  you?"  he  asked,  in  gentle  and  husky 
voice. 

' '  Oh,  Ben !  No !  No !  It's  that  I'm  afraid  of  your  love 
for  me!  I  can't  bear — what  I  have  to  bear — if  I  see  you, 
if  I  listen  to  you." 

"Then  you've  weakened?  You're  no  proud,  high- 
strung,  thoroughbred  girl  any  more?  You're  showin' 
yellow?" 

"Ben  Wade,  I  deny  that,"  she  answered,  spiritedly, 
with  an  uplift  of  her  head.  "It's  not  weakness,  but 
strength  I've  found." 

"Ahuh!  Well,  I  reckon  I  understand.  Collie,  listen. 
Wils  let  me  read  your  last  letter  to  him." 

"I  expected  that.  I  think  I  told  him  to.  Anyway,  I 
wanted  you  to  know — what — what  ailed  me." 

"Lass,  it  was  a  fine,  brave  letter — written  by  a  girl 
faciY  an  upheaval  of  conscience  an'  soul.  But  in  your 
own  trouble  you  forget  the  effect  that  letter  might  have 
on  Wils  Moore." 

"Ben!  .  .  .  I — I've  lain  awake  at  night —  Oh,  was  he 
hurt?" 

"Collie,  I  reckon  if  you  don't  see  Wils  he'll  kill  himself 
or  kill  Buster  Jack,"  replied  Wade,  gravely. 

"I'll  see—him!"  she  faltered.  "But  oh,  Ben— you 
don't  mean  that  Wilson  would  be  so  base — so  cowardly?" 

"Collie,  you're  a  child.  You  don't  realize  the  depths 
to  which  a  man  can  sink.  Wils  has  had  a  long,  hard  pull 
this  winter.  My  nursin'  an'  your  letters  have  saved  his 
life.  He's  well,  now,  but  that  long,  dark  spell  of  mind 
left  its  shadow  on  him.  He's  morbid." 

"What  does  he — want  to  bee  me — for?"  asked  Colum< 

222 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

bine,  tremulously.    There  were  tears  in  her  eyeSc 
only  cause  more  pain — make  matters  worse." 

"Reckon  I  don't  agree  with  you.  Wils  just  wants  an' 
needs  to  see  you.  Why,  he  appreciated  your  position 
I've  heard  him  cry  like  a  woman  over  it  an'  our  helpless 
ness.  What  ails  him  is  lovesickness,  the  awful  feelin' 
which  comes  to  a  man  who  believes  he  has  lost  his  sweet 
heart's  love." 

"  Poor  boy !  So  he  imagines  I  don't  love  him  any  more? 
Good  Heavens!  How  stupid  men  are! ...  I'll  see  him, 
Ben.  Take  me  to  him." 

For  answer,  Wade  grasped  the  bridle  of  her  horse  and, 
turning  him,  took  a  course  leading  away  behind  the  hill 
that  lay  between  them  and  the  ranch-house.  The  trail 
was  narrow  and  brushy,  making  it  necessary  for  him  to 
walk  ahead  of  the  horse.  So  the  hunter  did  not  speak  to 
her  or  look  at  her  for  some  time.  He  plodded  on  with  his 
eyes  downcast.  Something  tugged  at  Wade's  mind,  an 
old,  familiar,  beckoning  thing,  vague  and  mysterious  and 
black,  a  presage  of  catastrophe.  But  it  was  only  an  open 
ing  wedge  into  his  mind.  It  had  not  entered.  Gravity 
and  unhappiness  occupied  him.  His  senses,  nevertheless, 
were  alert.  He  heard  the  low  roar  of  the  flooded  brook, 
the  whir  of  rising  grouse  ahead,  the  hoofs  of  deer  on 
stones,  the  song  of  spring  birds.  He  had  an  eye  also  for 
the  wan  wild  flowers  in  the  shaded  corners.  Presently  he 
led  the  horse  out  of  the  willows  into  the  open  and  up  a  low- 
Bwelling,  long  slope  of  fragrant  sage.  Here  he  dropped 
back  to  Columbine's  side  and  put  his  hand  upon  the 
pommel  of  her  saddle.  It  was  not  long  until  her  own 
hand  softly  fell  upon  his  and  clasped  it.  Wade  thrilled 
under  the  warm  touch.  How  well  he  knew  her  heart! 
When  she  ceased  to  love  any  one  to  whom  she  had  given 
her  love  then  she  would  have  ceased  to  breathec 

223 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Lass,  this  isn't  the  first  mornin'  I've  waited  for 
he  said,  presently.     "An'  when  I  had  to  go  back  to  Wils 
without  you — well,  it  was  hard." 

"Then  he  wants  to  see  me — so  badly?"  she  asked. 

"Reckon  you've  not  thought  much  about  him  or  me 
lately,"  said  Wade. 

"  No.  I've  tried  to  put  you  out  of  my  mind.  I've  had 
so  much  to  think  of — why,  even  the  sleepless  nights  have 
flown!" 

"Are  you  goin'  to  confide  in  me — as  you  used  to?" 

"Ben,  there's  nothing  to  confide.  I'm  just  where  I  left 
off  in  that  letter  to  Wilson.  And  the  more  I  think  the 
more  muddled  I  get." 

Wade  greeted  this  reply  with  a  long  silence.  It  was 
enough  to  feel  her  hand  upon  his  and  to  have  the  glad 
comfort  and  charm  of  her  presence  once  more.  He  seemed 
to  have  grown  older  lately.  The  fragrant  breath  of  the 
sage  slopes  came  to  him  as  something  precious  he  must 
feel  and  love  more.  A  haunting  transience  mocked  him 
from  these  rolling  gray  hills.  Old  White  Slides  loomed 
gray  and  dark  up  into  the  blue,  grim  and  stern  reminder 
of  age  and  of  fleeting  time.  There  was  a  cloud  on  Wade's 
horizon. 

"Wils  is  waitin'  down  there,"  said  Wade,  pointing  to  a 
grove  of  aspens  below.  "Reckon  it's  pretty  close  to  the 
house,  an'  a  trail  runs  along  there.  But  Wils  can't  ride 
very  well  yet,  an'  this  appeared  to  be  the  best  place." 

"  Ben,  I  don't  care  if  dad  or  Jack  know  I've  met  Wilson. 
I'll  tell  them,"  said  Columbine. 

"  Ahuh !     Well,  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't,"  he  replied. 

They  went  down  the  slope  and  entered  the  grove.  It 
was  an  open,  pretty  spot,  with  grass  and  wild  flowers,  and 
old,  bleached  logs,  half  sunny  and  half  shady  under  the 
new-born,  fluttering  aspen  leaves.  Wade  saw  Moore  sit- 

224 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

ting  on  his  horse.  And  it  struck  the  hunter  significantly 
that  the  cowboy  should  be  mounted  when  an  hour  back 
he  had  left  him  sitting  disconsolately  on  a  log.  Moore 
wanted  Columbine  to  see  him  first,  after  all  these  months 
of  fear  and  dread,  mounted  upon  his  horse.  Wade  heard 
Columbine's  glad  little  cry,  but  he  did  not  turn  to  look 
at  her  then.  But  when  they  reached  the  spot  where 
Moore  stood  Wade  could  not  resist  the  desire  to  see  the 
meeting  between  the  lovers. 

Columbine,  being  a  woman,  and  therefore  capable  of 
hiding  agitation,  except  in  moments  of  stress,  met  that 
trying  situation  with  more  apparent  composure  than  the 
cowboy.  Moore's  long,  piercing  gaze  took  the  rose  out 
of  Columbine'?  cheeks. 

"Oh,  Wilson!  I'm  so  happy  to  see  you  on  your  horse 
again!"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  too  good  to  be  true.  I've 
prayed  for  that  more  than  anything  else.  Can  you  get 
up  into  your  saddle  like  you  used  to?  Can  you  ride  well 
again? . . .  Let  me  see  your  foot." 

Moore  held  out  a  bulky  foot.  He  wore  a  shoe,  and  it 
was  slashed. 

"I  can't  wear  a  boot,"  he  explained. 

"Oh,  I  see!"  exclaimed  Columbine,  slowly,  with  her 
£;Aad  smile  fading.  "You  can't  put  that — that  foot  in  a 
stirrup,  can  you?" 

"No." 

"  But — it — it  will — you'll  be  able  to  wear  a  boot  soon,*' 
she  implored. 

"Never  again,  Collie,"  he  said,  sadly. 

And  then  Wade  perceived  that,  like  a  flash,  the  old 
spirit  leaped  up  in  Columbine.  It  was  all  he  wanted  to 
see. 

"Now,  folks,"  he  said,  "I  reckon  two's  company  an" 
three's  a  crowd,  I'll  go  off  a  little  ways  an'  keep  watch.'" 

225 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

68 Ben,  you  stay  here,"  replied  Columbine,  hurriedly. 

"Why,  Collie?  Are  you  afraid — or  ashamed  to  be  with 
me  alone?"  asked  Moore,  bitterly. 

Columbine's  eyes  flashed.  It  was  seldom  they  lost 
their  sweet  tranquillity.  But  now  they  had  depth  and 
fire. 

"  No,  Wilson,  I'm  neither  afraid  nor  ashamed  to  be  with 
you  alone,"  she  declared.  "But  I  can  be  as  natural — as 
much  myself  with  Ben  here  as  I  could  be  alone.  Why 
can't  vou  be?  If  dad  and  Jack  heard  of  our  meeting  the 
fact  of  Ben's  presence  might  make  it  look  different  to 
them.  And  why  should  I  heap  trouble  upon  my 
shoulders?" 

"I  beg  pardon,  Collie,"  said  the  cowboy.  "I've  just 
been  afraid  of — of  things." 

"My  horse  is  restless,"  returned  Columbine.,  "Let's 
get  off  and  talk." 

So  they  dismounted.  It  warmed  Wade's  gloomy  heart 
to  see  the  woman-look  in  Columbine's  eyes  as  she  watched 
the  cowboy  get  off  and  walk.  For  a  crippled  man  he  did 
very  well.  But  that  moment  was  fraufeht  with  meaning 
for  Wade.  These  unfortunate  lovers,  brave  and  fine  in 
their  suffering,  did  not  realize  the  peril  they  invited  by 
proximity.  But  Wade  knew.  He  pitied  them,  he  thrilled 
for  them,  he  lived  their  torture  with  them. 

"Tell  me — everything,"  said  Columbine,  impulsively. 

Moore,  with  dragging  step,  approached  an  aspen  log 
that  lay  off  the  ground,  propped  by  the  stump,  and  here 
he  leaned  for  support.  Columbine  laid  her  gloves  on  the 
log. 

"There's  nothing  to  tell  that  you  don't  know,"  replied 
Moore.  "I  wrote  you  all  there  was  to  write,  except" — 
here  he  dropped  his  head — "except  that  the  last  three 
weeks  have  been  hell." 

226 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"They've  not  been  exactly  heaven  for  me,"  replied 

Columbine,  with  a  little  laugh  that  gave  Wade  a  twinge. 

Then  the  lovers  began  to  talk  about  spring  ccmings 
about  horses  and  cattle,  and  feed,  about  commonplace 
ranch  matters  not  interesting  to  them,  but  which  seemed 
to  make  conversation  and  hide  their  true  thoughts.  Wade 
listened,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  read  their 
hearts. 

"Lass,  an*  you,  Wils — you're  wastin'  time  an*  gettin' 
nowhere,"  interposed  Wade.  "Now  let  me  go,  so's 
you'll  be  alone." 

"You  stay  right  there,"  ordered  Moore. 

"Why,  Ben,  I'm  ashamed  to  say  that  I  actually  forgot 
you  were  here,"  said  Columbine. 

"Then  I'll  remind  you,"  rejoined  the  hunter.  "Collie, 
tell  us  about  Old  Bill  an'  Jack." 

"Tell  you?    What?" 

"Well,  I've  seen  changes  in  both.  So  has  Wils,  though 
Wils  hasn't  seen  as  much  as  he's  heard  from  Lem  an' 
Montana  an'  the  Andrews  boys." 

"Oh!  .  .  ."  Columbine  choked  a  little  over  her  excla 
mation  of  understanding.  "Dad  has  gotten  a  new  lease 
on  life,  I  guess.  He's  happy,  like  a  boy  sometimes,  an' 
good  as  gold.  .  .  .  It's  all  because  of  the  change  in  Jack. 
That  is  remarkable.  I've  not  been  able  to  believe  my  own 
eyes.  Since  that  night  Jack  came  home  and  had  the 
— the  understanding  with  dad  he  has  been  another  per 
son.  He  has  left  me  alone.  He  treats  me  with  defer 
ence,  but  not  a  familiar  word  or  look.  He's  kind.  He 
offers  the  little  civilities  that  occur,  you  know.  But  he 
never  intrudes  upon  me.  Not  one  word  of  the  past !  It 
is  as  if  he  would  earn  my  respect,  and  have  that  or  nothing. 
.  .  .  Then  he  works  as  he  never  worked  before — on  dad's 
books,  in  the  shop,  out  on  the  range.  He  seems  obsessed 

597 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

with  some  thought  all  the  time.  He  talks  little.  All  the 
old  petulance,  obstinacy,  selfishness,  and  especially  his 
sudden,  queer  impulses,  and  bull-headed  tenacity — all 
gone !  He  has  suffered  physical  distress,  because  he  never 
was  used  to  hard  work.  And  more,  he's  suffered  terribly 
for  the  want  of  liquor.  I've  heard  him  say  to  dad:  'It's 
hell — this  burning  thirst.  I  never  knew  I  had  it.  I'll 
stand  it,  if  it  kills  me.  .  .  .  But  wouldn't  it  be  easier  on 
me  to  take  a  drink  now  and  then,  at  these  bad  times?' 
.  .  .  And  dad  said :  '  No,  son.  Break  off  fer  keeps !  This 
taperin'  off  is  no  good  way  to  stop  drinkin'.  Stand  the 
burnin'.  An'  when  it's  gone  you'll  be  all  the  gladder 
an'  I'll  be  all  the  prouder.'  ...  I  have  not  forgotten 
all  Jack's  former  failings,  but  I  am  forgetting  them, 
little  by  little.  For  dad's  sake  I'm  overjoyed.  For 
Jack's  I  am  glad.  I'm  convinced  now  that  he's  had 
his  lesson — that  he's  sowed  his  wild  oats — that  he  has 
become  a  man." 

Moore  listened  eagerly,  and  when  she  had  concluded 
he  thoughtfully  bent  his  head  and  began  to  cut  little  chips 
out  of  the  log  with  his  knife. 

"Collie,  I've  heard  a  good  deal  of  the  change  in  Jack," 
he  said,  earnestly.  "Honest  Injun,  I'm  glad — glad  for 
his  father's  sake,  for  his  own,  and  for  yours.  The  boys 
think  Jack's  locoed.  But  his  reformation  is  not  strange 
to  me.  If  I  were  no  good — just  like  he  was — well,  I  could 
change  as  greatly  for — for  you." 

Columbine  hastily  averted  her  face.  Wade's  keen 
eyes,  apparently  hidden  under  his  old  hat,  saw  how  wet 
her  lashes  were,  how  her  lips  trembled. 

"Wilson,  you  think  then — you  believe  Jack  will  last-~ 
will  stick  to  his  new  ways?"  she  queried,  hurriedly 0 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  replied,  nodding. 

"How  good  of  you!  Oh!  Wilson,  it's  like  you  to  be 

228 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

noble — splendid.    When  you  might  have — when  it  'd  have 
been  so  natural  for  you  to  doubt — to  scorn  him ! " 

"Collie,  I'm  honest  about  that.  And  now  you  be  just 
as  honest.  Do  you  think  Jack  will  stand  to  his  colors? 
Never  drink — never  gamble — never  fly  off  the  handle 
again?" 

"Yes,  I  honestly  believe  that — providing  he  gets — pro 
viding  I — " 

Her  voice  trailed  off  faintly. 

Moore  wheeled  to  address  the  hunter. 

"Pard,  what  do  you  think?  Tell  me  now.  Tell  us. 
It  will  help  me,  and  Collie,  too.  I've  asked  you  before, 
but  you  wouldn't —  Tell  us  now,  do  you  believe  Buster 
Jack  will  live  up  to  his  new  ideals?" 

Wade  had  long  parried  that  question,  because  the  time 
to  answer  it  had  not  come  till  this  moment. 

"No,"  he  replied,  gently. 

Columbine  uttered  a  little  cry. 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Moore,  his  face  darkening. 

"  Reckon  there  are  reasons  that  you  young  folks  wouldn't 
think  of,  an'  couldn't  know." 

"Wade,  it's  not  like  you  to  be  hopeless  for  any  man," 
said  Moore. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  it  is,  sometimes,"  replied  Wade,  wagging 
his  head  solemnly.  "Young  folks,  I'm  grantin'  all  you 
say  as  to  Jack's  reformation,  except  that  it's  permanent. 
I'm  grantin'  he's  sincere — that  he's  not  playin'  a  part — - 
that  his  vicious  instincts  are  smothered  under  a  noble 
impulse  to  be  what  he  ought  to  be.  It's  no  trick.  Buster 
Jack  has  all  but  done  the  impossible." 

"Then  why  isn't  his  sincerity  and  good  work  to  be 
permanent?"  asked  Moore,  impatiently,  and  his  gesture 
was  violent. 

"Wils,  his  change  is  not  moral  force.     It's  passion," 

229 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

The  cowboy  paled.  Columbine  stood  silent,  with  me 
tent  eyes  upon  the  hunter.  Neither  of  them  seemed  tt 
understand  him  well  enough  to  make  reply. 

"Love  can  work  marvels  in  any  man,"  went  on  Wade. 
"But  love  can't  change  the  fiber  of  a  man's  heart.  A 
man  is  born  so  an'  so.  He  loves  an'  hates  an'  feels 
accordin'  to  the  nature.  It  'd  be  accordin'  to  nature  for 
Jack  Belllounds  to  stay  reformed  if  his  love  for  Collie 
lasted.  An'  that's  the  point.  It  can't  last.  Not  in  a 
man  of  his  stripe." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Moore. 

"Because  Jack's  love  will  never  be  returned — satisfied. 
It  takes  a  man  of  different  caliber  to  love  a  woman  who'll 
never  love  him.  Jack's  obsessed  by  passion  now.  He'd 
perform  miracles.  But  that's  not  possible.  The  miracle 
necessary  here  would  be  for  him  to  change  his  moral  force, 
his  blood,  the  habits  of  his  mind.  That's  beyond  his 
power." 

Columbine  flung  out  an  appealing  hand. 

"Ben,  I  could  pretend  to  love  him — I  might  make 
myself  love  him,  if  that  would  give  him  the  power." 

"Lass,  don't  delude  yourself.  You  can't  do  that," 
replied  Wade. 

"How  do  you  know  what  I  can  do?"  she  queried, 
struggling  with  her  helplessness. 

"Why,  child,  I  know  you  better  than  you  know  your 
self." 

"Wilson,  he's  right,  he's  right!"  she  cried.  "That's 
why  it's  so  terrible  for  me  now.  He  knows  my  very 
heart.  He  reads  my  soul.  ...  I  can  never  love  Jack  Bell 
lounds.  Nor  ever  pretend  love!" 

"Collie,  if  Ben  knows  you  so  well,  you  ought  to  listen 
to  him,  as  you  used  to,"  said  Moore,  touching  her  hand 
with  infinite  sympathy. 

230 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Wade  watched  them.  His  pity  and  affection  did  not 
obstruct  the  ruthless  expression  of  his  opinions  or  the 
direction  of  his  intentions. 

"Lass,  an'  you,  Wils,  listen,"  he  said,  with  all  his  gentle 
ness.  "It's  bad  enough  without  you  makin'  it  worse. 
Don't  blind  yourselves.  That's  the  hell  with  so  many 
people  in  trouble.  It's  hard  to  see  clear  when  you're 
sufferin'  and  fightin'.  But  /  see  clear. . . .  Now  with  just 
a  word  I  could  fetch  this  new  Jack  Belllounds  back  to  his 
Buster  Jack  tricks!" 

"Oh,  Ben!  No!  No!  No!"  cried  Columbine,  in  a  dis 
tress  that  showed  how  his  force  dominated  her. 

Moore's  face  turned  as  white  as  ashes. 

Wade  divined  then  that  Moore  was  aware  of  what  he 
himself  knew  about  Jack  Belllounds.  And  to  his  love  for 
Moore  was  added  an  infinite  respect. 

"1  won't  unless  Collie  forces  me  to,"  he  said,  signifi 
cantly. 

This  was  the  critical  moment,  and  suddenly  Wade 
answered  to  it  without  restraint.  He  leaped  up,  startling 
Columbine. 

"Wils,  you  call  me  pard,  don't  you?  I  reckon  you 
never  knew  me.  Why,  the  game's  'most  played  out,  an* 
I  haven't  showed  my  hand!  ...  I'd  see  Jack  Belllounds  in 
hell  before  I'd  let  him  have  Collie.  An'  if  she  carried  out 
fcer  strange  an'  lofty  idea  of  duty — an'  married  him  right 
this  afternoon— I  could  an*  I  would  part  them  before 
night!" 

He  ended  that  speech  in  a  voice  neither  had  ever  heard 
him  use  before.  And  the  look  of  him  must  have  been  in 
harmony  with  it.  Columbine,  wide-eyed  and  gasping,, 
seemed  struck  to  the  heart.  Moore's  white  face  showed 
awe  and  fear  and  irresponsible  primitive  joy.  Wade 
turned  away  from  them,  the  better  to  control  the  passion 

231 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

that  had  mastered  him.  And  it  did  not  subside  in  an 
instant.  He  paced  to  and  fro,  his  head  bowed.  Pres 
ently,  when  he  faced  around,  it  was  to  see  what  he  had 
expected  to  see. 

Columbine  was  clasped  in  Moore's  arms. 

"Collie,  you  didn't — you  haven't — promised  to  marry 
him — again!" 

"No,  oh — no!  I  haven't!  I  was  only — only  trying  to 
— to  make  up  my  mind.  Wilson,  don't  look  at  me  so 
terribly!" 

"  You'll  not  agree  again?  You'll  not  set  another  day ? " 
demanded  Moore,  passionately.  He  strained  her  to  him, 
yet  held  her  so  he  could  see  her  face,  thus  dominating  her 
with  both  strength  and  will.  His  face  was  corded  now, 
and  darkly  flushed.  His  jaw  quivered.  "You'll  never 
marry  Jack  Belllounds!  You'll  not  let  sudden  impulse — 
sudden  persuasion  or  force  change  you?  Promise!  Swear 
you'll  never  marry  him.  Swear!" 

" Oh,  Wilson,  I  promise — I  swear! "  she  cried.  " Never! 
I'm  yours.  It  would  be  a  sin.  I've  been  mad  to — to 
blind  myself." 

"You  love  me!  You  love  me!"  he  cried,  in  a  sudden 
transport. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!    I  do." 

"  Say  it  then !  Say  it — so  I'll  never  doubt — never  suffer 
again!" 

"I  love  you,  Wilson!  I — I  love  you — unutterably," 
she  whispered.  "I  love  you — so — I'm  broken-hearted 
now.  I'll  never  live  without  you.  I'll  die— I  love  you 
so!" 

"You — you  flower — you  angel!"  he  whispered  in  re 
turn.  "You  woman!  You  precious  creature!  I've  been 
crazed  at  loss  of  you ! " 

Wade  paced  out  of  earshot,  and  this  time  he  remained 

232 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RW2X 

away  for  a  considerable  time.  He  lived  again  moments 
of  his  own  past,  unforgetable  and  sad.  When  at  length 
he  returned  toward  the  young  couple  they  were  sitting 
apart,  composed  once  more,  talking  earnestly.  As  he 
neared  them  Columbine  rose  to  greet  him  with  wonderful 
eyes,  in  which  reproach  blended  with  affection. 

"Ben,  so  this  is  what  you've  done!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Lass,  I'm  only  a  humble  instrument,  an'  I  believe  God 
guides  me  right,"  replied  the  hunter. 

"I  love  you  more,  it  seems,  for  what  you  make  me 
suffer,"  she  said,  and  she  kissed  him  with  a  serious  sweet 
ness.  "I'm  only  a  leaf  in  the  storm.  But — let  what 
will  come.  .  .  .  Take  me  home." 

They  said  good-by  to  Wilson,  who  sat  with  head  bowed 
upon  his  hands.  His  voice  trembled  as  he  answered  them. 
Wade  found  the  trail  while  Columbine  mounted.  As 
they  went  slowly  down  the  gentle  slope,  stepping  over 
the  numerous  logs  fallen  across  the  way,  Wade  caught  out 
of  the  tail  of  his  eye  a  moving  object  along  the  outer  edge 
of  the  aspen  grove  above  them.  It  was  the  figure  of  a 
man,  skulking  behind  the  trees.  He  disappeared.  Wade 
casually  remarked  to  Columbine  that  now  she  could  spur 
the  pony  and  hurry  on  home.  But  Columbine  refused. 
When  they  got  a  little  farther  on,  out  of  sight  of  Moore 
and  somewhat  around  to  the  left,  Wade  espied  the  man 
again.  He  carried  a  rifle.  Wade  grew  somewhat  per 
turbed. 

"Collie,  you  run  on  home,"  he  said,  sharply. 

"Why?  You've  complained  of  not  seeing  me.  NOTO 
that  I  want  to  be  with  you  .  .  .  Ben,  you  see  some 
one!" 

Columbine's  keen  faculties  evidently  sensed  the  change 
in  Wade,  and  the  direction  of  his  uneasy  glance  convinced 
her. 

16  233 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Oh,  there's  a  man! .  .  .  Ben,  it  is — yes,  it's  Jack,"  she 
exclaimed,  excitedly. 

"Reckon  you'd  have  it  better  if  you  say  Buster  Jack," 
replied  Wade,  with  his  tragic  smile. 

"Ah!"  whispered  Columbine,  as  she  gazed  up  at  the 
aspen  slope,  with  eyes  lighting  to  battle. 

"Run  home,  Collie,  an'  leave  him  to  me,"  said  Wade, 

"Ben,  you  mean  he — he  saw  us  up  there  in  the 
grove?  Saw  me  in  Wilson's  arms  —  saw  me  kissing 
him?" 

"Sure  as  you're  born,  Collie.  He  watched  us.  He 
saw  all  your  love-makin'.  I  can  tell  that  by  the  way 
he  walks.  It's  Buster  Jack  again!  Alas  for  the  new 
an'  noble  Jacki  I  told  you,  Collie.  Now  you  run  on 
an'  leave  him  to  me." 

Wade  became  aware  that  she  turned  at  his  last  words 
and  regarded  him  attentively.  But  his  gaze  was  riveted 
on  the  striding  form  of  Belliounds. 

"Leave  him  to  you?  For  what  reason,  my  friend?" 
she  asked. 

"Buster  Jack's  on  the  rampage.  Can't  you  see  that? 
He'll  insult  you.  He'll— " 

"I  will  not  go,"  interrupted  Columbine,  and,  halting 
her  pony,  she  deliberately  dismounted. 

Wade  grew  concerned  with  the  appearance  of  young 
Belliounds,  and  it  was  with  a  melancholy  reminder 
of  the  infallibility  of  his  presentiments.  As  he  and 
Coltunbine  halted  in  the  trail,  Belllounds's  hurried 
stride  lengthened  until  he  almost  ran.  He  carried 
the  rifle  forward  in  a  most  significant  manner.  Black 
as  a  th  inder-cloud  was  his  face.  Alas  for  the  dignity 
and  pain  and  resolve  that  had  only  recently  showed 
there! 

Belliounds  reached  them.     He  was  frothing  at  the 

234 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

mouth.    He  cocked  the  rifle  and  thrust  it  toward  Wade, 
holding  low  down. 

"  You — meddling  sneak !  If  you  open  your  trap  I'll  bore 
you!"  he  shouted,  almost  incoherently. 

Wade  knew  when  danger  of  life  loomed  imminent.  He 
fixed  his  glance  upon  the  glaring  eyes  of  Belllounds. 

"Jack,  seein'  I'm  not  packin'  a  gun,  it  'd  look  sorta 
natural,  along  with  your  other  tricks,  if  you  bored 
me." 

His  gentle  voice,  his  cool  mien,  his  satire,  were  as 
giant's  arms  to  drag  Belllounds  back  from  murder. 
The  rifle  was  raised,  the  hammer  reset,  the  butt 
lowered  to  the  ground,  while  Belllounds,  snarling  and 
choking,  fought  for  speech. 

"I'll  get  even — with  you,"  he  said,  huskily.  "I'm  on 
to  your  game  now.  I'll  fix  you  later.  But — I'll  do  you 
harm  now  if  you  mix  in  with  this!" 

Then  he  wheeled  to  Columbine,  and  as  if  he  had  just 
recognized  her,  a  change  that  was  pitiful  and  shocking 
convulsed  his  face.  He  leaned  toward  her,  pointing  with 
shaking,  accusing  hand. 

"I  saw  you — up  there.     I  watched — you,"  he  panted. 

Columbine  faced  him,  whice  and  mute. 

"It  was  you — wasn't  it?"  he  yelled. 

"Yes,  of  course  it  was." 

She  might  have  struck  him,  for  the  way  he  flinched. 

"What  was  that — a  trick — a  game — a  play  all  fixed  up 
for  my  benefit?" 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  replied. 

"  Bah !  You — you  white-faced  cat ! .  . .  I  saw  you  I  Saw 
you  in  Moore's  arms!  Saw  him  hug  you — kiss  you!  .  .  . 
Then — I  saw — you  put  up  your  arms — round  his  neck — 
kiss  him — kiss  him — kiss  him!  ...  I  saw  all  that— 
didn't  I?" 

235 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"You  must  have,  since  you  say  so,"  she  returned,  with 
perfect  composure. 

"But  did  you?"  he  almost  shrieked,  the  blood  cording 
and  bulging  red,  as  if  about  to  burst  the  veins  of  temples 
and  neck. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  flashed.  There  was  primitive  woman 
uppermost  in  her  now,  and  a  spirit  no  man  might  provoke 
with  impunity. 

"You  love  him?"  he  asked,  very  low,  incredulously, 
with  almost  insane  eagerness  for  denial  in  his  query. 

Then  Wade  saw  the  glory  of  her — saw  her  mother  again 
in  that  proud,  fierce  uplift  of  face,  that  flamed  red  and  then 
blazed  white — saw  hate  and  passion  and  love  in  all  their 
primal  nakedness. 

"Love  him!  Love  Wilson  Moore?  Yes,  you  fool!  I 
love  him!  Yes!  Yesl  YES!" 

That  voice  would  have  pierced  the  heart  of  a  wooden 
image,  so  Wade  thought,  as  all  his  strung  nerves  quivered 
and  thrilled. 

Belllounds  uttered  a  low  cry  of  realization,  and  all  his 
instinctive  energy  seemed  on  the  verge  of  collapse.  He 
grew  limp,  he  sagged,  he  tottered.  His  sensorial  percep 
tions  seemed  momentarily  blunted. 

Wade  divined  the  tragedy,  and  a  pang  of  great  com 
passion  overcame  him.  Whatever  Jack  Belllounds  was  in 
character,  he  had  inherited  his  father's  power  to  love,  and 
he  was  human.  Wade  felt  the  death  in  that  stricken  soul, 
and  it  was  the  last  flash  of  pity  he  ever  had  for  Jack  Bell 
lounds. 

"You — you — "  muttered  Belllounds,  raising  a  hand 
that  gathered  speed  and  strength  in  the  action.  The 
moment  of  a  great  blow  had  passed,  like  a  storm-blast 
through  a  leafless  tree.  Now  the  thousand  devils  of  his 
nature  leaped  into  ascendancy.  "You! — "  He  could 

236 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

articulate.  Dark  and  terrible  became  his  energy.  It  was 
like  a  resistless  current  forced  through  leaping  thought 
and  leaping  muscle. 

He  struck  her  on  the  mouth,  a  cruel  blow  that  would 
have  felled  her  but  for  Wade:  and  then  he  lunged  away, 
bowed  and  trembling,  yet  with  fierce,  instinctive  motion, 
as  if  driven  to  run  with  the  spirit  of  his  rage. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WADE  noticed  that  after  her  trying  experience  with 
him  and  Wilson  and  Belllounds  Columbine  did  not 
ride  frequently. 

He  managed  to  get  a  word  or  two  with  her  whenever 
he  went  to  the  ranch-house,  and  he  needed  only  look  at 
her  to  read  her  sensitive  mind.  All  was  wel!  with  Colum 
bine,  despite  her  trouble.  She  remained  upheld  in  spirit^ 
while  yet  she  seemed  to  brood  over  an  unsolvable  problem. 
She  had  said,  "But — let  what  will  come!" — and  she  was 
waiting. 

Wade  hunted  for  more  than  lions  and  wolves  these  days. 
Like  an  Indian  scout  who  scented  peril  or  heard  an  un 
known  step  upon  his  trail,  Wade  rode  the  hills,  and  spent 
long  hours  hidden  on  the  lonely  slopes,  watching  with 
somber,  keen  eyes.  They  were  eyes  that  knew  what  they 
were  looking  for.  They  had  marked  the  strange  sight  of 
the  son  of  Bill  Belllounds,  gliding  along  that  trail  where 
Moore  had  met  Columbine,  sneaking  and  stooping,  at  last 
with  many  a  covert  glance  about,  to  kneel  in  the  trail 
and  compare  the  horse  tracks  there  with  horseshoes  he 
took  from  his  pocket.  That  alone  made  Bent  Wade  eter 
nally  vigilant.  He  kept  his  counsel.  He  worked  more 
swiftly,  so  that  he  might  have  leisure  for  his  peculiar  seek 
ing.  He  spent  an  hour  each  night  with  the  cowboys,  lis 
tening  to  their  recounting  of  the  day  and  to  their  homely 
and  shrewd  opinions.  He  haunted  the  vicinity  of  the 
ranch-house  at  night,  watching  and  listening  for  tha* 

238  " 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

moment  which  was  to  aid  him  in  the  crisis  that  was 
impending.  Many  a  time  he  had  been  near  when  Colum 
bine  passed  from  the  living-room  to  her  corner  of  the 
house.  He  had  heard  her  sigh  and  could  almost  have 
touched  her. 

Buster  Jack  had  suffered  a  regurgitation  of  the  old 
driving  and  insatiate  temper,  and  there  was  gloom  in  the 
house  of  Belllounds.  Trouble  clouded  the  old  man's  eyes. 

May  came  with  the  spring  round-up.  Wade  was  called 
to  use  a  rope  and  brand  calves  under  the  order  of  Jack 
Belllounds,  foreman  of  White  Slides.  That  round-up 
showed  a  loss  of  one  hundred  head  of  stock,  some  branded 
steers,  and  yearlings,  and  many  calves,  in  all  a  mixed 
herd.  Belllounds  received  the  amazing  news  with  a  roar. 
He  had  been  ready  for  something  to  roar  at.  The  cow 
boys  gave  as  reasons  winter-kill,  and  lions,  and  perhaps 
some  head  stolen  since  the  thaw.  Wade  emphatically 
denied  this.  Very  few  cattle  had  fallen  prey  to  the  big 
cats,  and  none,  so  far  as  he  could  find,  had  been  frozen  or 
caught  in  drifts.  It  was  the  young  foreman  who  stunned 
them  all.  "Rustled,"  he  said,  darkly.  "There's  too 
many  loafers  and  homesteaders  in  these  hills!"  And  he 
stalked  out  to  leave  his  hearers  food  for  reflection. 

Jack  Belllcunds  drank,  but  no  one  saw  him  drunk,  and 
no  one  could  tell  where  he  got  the  liquor.  He  rode  hard 
and  fast;  he  drove  the  cowboys  one  way  while  he  went 
another;  he  had  grown  shifty,  cunning,  more  intolerant 
than  ever.  Some  nights  he  rode  to  Kremmling,  or  said 
he  had  been  there,  when  next  day  the  cowboys  found 
another  spent  and  broken  horse  to  turn  out.  On  other 
nights  he  coaxed  and  bullied  them  into  playing  poker. 
They  won  more  of  his  money  than  they  cared  to  count. 

Columbine  confided  to  Wade,  with  mournful  whisper, 
that  Jack  paid  no  attention  to  her  whatever,  and  that  the 

239 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

old  rancher  attributed  this  coldness,  and  Jack's  back 
sliding,  to  her  irresponsiveness  and  her  tardiness  in  setting 
the  wedding-day  that  must  be  set.  To  this  Wade  had 
whispered  in  reply,  "  Don't  ever  forget  what  I  said  to  you 
an'  Wils  that  day!" 

So  Wade  upheld  Columbine  with  his  subtle  dominance, 
and  watched  over  her,  as  it  were,  from  afar.  No  longer 
was  he  welcome  in  the  big  living-room.  Belllounds  re 
acted  to  his  son's  influence. 

Twice  in  the  early  mornings  Wade  had  surprised  Jack 
Belllounds  in  the  blacksmith  shop.  The  meetings  were 
accidental,  yet  Wade  ever  remembered  how  coincidence 
beckoned  him  thither  and  how  circumstance  magnified 
strange  reflections.  There  was  no  reason  why  Jack  should 
not  be  tinkering  in  the  blacksmith  shop  early  of  a  morning. 
But  Wade  followed  an  uncanny  guidance.  Like  hi? 
hound  Fox,  he  never  split  on  trails.  When  opportunity 
afforded  he  went  into  the  shop  and  looked  it  over  with 
eyes  as  keen  as  the  nose  of  his  dog.  And  in  the  dust  of 
the  floor  he  had  discovered  little  circles  with  dots  in  the 
middle,  all  uniform  in  size.  Sight  of  them  did  not  snock 
him  until  they  recalled  vividly  the  little  circles  with  dots 
in  the  earthen  floor  of  Wilson  Moore's  cabin.  Little 
marks  made  by  the  end  of  Moore's  crutch !  Wade  grinned 
then  like  a  wolf  showing  his  fangs.  And  the  vitals  of  a 
wolf  could  no  more  strongly  have  felt  the  instinct  to  rend. 

For  Wade,  the  cloud  on  his  horizon  spread  and  dark 
ened,  gathered  sinister  shape  of  storm,  harboring  lightning 
and  havoc.  It  was  the  cloud  in  his  mind,  the  foreshadow 
ing  of  his  soul,  the  prophetic  sense  of  like  to  like.  Where 
he  wandered  there  the  blight  fell ! 

Significant  was  the  fact  that  Belllounds  hired  new  men, 
Bludsoe  had  quit,  Montana  Jim  grew  surly  these  days 

240 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  packed  a  gun,  Lem  Billings  had  threatened  to 
leave.  New  and  strange  hands  for  Jack  Belllounds 
to  direct  had  a  tendency  to  release  a  strain  and  tide 
things  over. 

Every  time  the  old  rancher  saw  Wade  he  rolled  his  eye? 
and  wagged  his  head,  as  if  combating  superstition  with 
an  intelligent  sense  of  justice.  Wade  knew  what  troubled 
Belllounds,  and  it  strengthened  the  gloomy  mood  that, 
like  a  poison  lichen,  seemed  finding  root. 

Every  day  Wade  visited  his  friend  Wilson  Moore,  and 
most  of  their  conversation  centered  round  that  which 
had  become  a  ruling  passion  for  both.  But  the  time  came 
when  Wade  deviated  from  his  gentleness  of  speech  and 
leisure  of  action. 

"Bent,  you're  not  like  you  were,"  said  Moore,  once,  in 
surprise  at  the  discovery.  "You're  losing  hope  and 
confidence." 

"No.     I've  only  somethin'  on  my  mind." 

"What?" 

"I  reckon  I'm  not  goin'  to  tell  you  now." 

"You've  got  hell  on  your  mind!"  flashed  the  cowboy, 
in  grim  ins-oiration. 

Wade  ignored  the  insinuation  and  turned  the  conver 
sation  to  another  subject. 

"  Wils,  you're  buyin'  stock  right  along?" 

"Sure  am.  I  saved  some  money,  you  know.  And 
what's  the  use  to  hoard  it?  I'll  buy  cheap.  In  five  years 
I'll  have  five  hundred,  maybe  a  thousand  head.  Wade, 
my  old  dad  will  be  pleased  to  find  out  I've  made  the  start 
I  have." 

"Well,  it's  a  fine  start,  I'll  allow.  Have  you  picked  up 
any  unbranded  stock?" 

"  Sure  I  have.  Say,  pard,  are  you  worrying  about  this 
two-bit  rustler  work  that's  been  going  on?" 

241 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

fl<  Wils,  it  ain't  two  bits  any  more.  I  reckon  it's  gettin* 
into  the  four-bit  class." 

"I've  been  careful  to  have  my  business  transactions 
all  in  writing,"  said  Moore.  "It  makes  these  fellows 
sore,  because  some  of  them  can't  write,  And  they're 
not  used  to  it.  But  I'm  starting  this  game  in  my 
own  way." 

"Have  you  sold  any  stock?" 

"Not  yet.  But  the  Andrews  boys  are  driving  some 
thirty-odd  head  to  Kremmling  for  me  to  be  sold." 

"Ahuh!  Well,  I'll  be  goin',"  Wade  replied,  and  it  was 
significant  of  his  state  of  mind  that  he  left  his  young 
friend  sorely  puzzled.  Not  that  Wade  iid  not  see  Moore's 
anxiety!  But  the  drift  of  events  at  White  Slides  had 
passed  beyond  the  stage  where  sympathetic  and  inspiring 
hope  might  serve  Wade's  purpose.  Besides,  his  mood 
was  gradually  changing  as  these  events,  like  many  fibers 
of  a  web,  gradually  closed  in  toward  a  culminating 
knot. 

That  night  Wade  lounged  with  the  cowboys  and  new 
hands  in  front  of  the  little  storehouse  where  Belllounds 
kept  supplies  for  all.  He  had  lounged  there  before  in  the 
expectation  of  seeing  the  rancher's  son«  And  this  time 
anticipation  was  verified.  Jack  Belllounds  swaggered 
over  from  the  ranch-house,,  He  met  civility  and  obedi 
ence  now  where  formerly  he  had  earned  but  ridicule  and 
opposition,  So  long  as  he  worked  hard  himself  the  cow 
boys  endured.  The  subtle  change  in  him  seemed  of 
sterner  stuff.  The  talk,  as  usual,  centered  round  the 
stock  subjects  and  the  banter  and  gossip  of  ranch-hands. 
Wade  selected  an  interval  when  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
conversation,  and  with  eyes  that  burned  under  the 
shadow  of  his  broad-brimmed  sombrero  he  watched  the 
son  of  Belllounds. 

242 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Say,  boys,  Wils  Moore  has  begun  sellin*  cattle,"  re 
marked  Wade,  casually.  "The  Andrews  brothers  are 
drivin'  for  him." 

"Wai,  so  Wils's  spread-eaglin'  into  a  real  rancher!" 
ejaculated  Lena  Billings.  "  Mighty  glad  to  hear  it.  Thet 
boy  shore  will  git  rich." 

Wade's  remark  incited  no  further  expressions  of  interest, 
But  it  was  Jack  Belllounds's  secret  mind  that  Wade 
wished  to  pierce.  He  saw  the  leaping  of  a  thought  that 
was  neither  interest  nor  indifference  nor  contempt,  but 
a  creative  thing  which  lent  a  fleeting  flash  to  the  face,  a 
slight  shock  to  the  body.  Then  Jack  Belllounds  bent  his 
head,  lounged  there  for  a  little  while  longer,  lost  in  ab 
sorption,  and  presently  he  strolled  away. 

Whatever  that  mounting  thought  of  Jack  Belllounds's 
was  it  brought  instant  decision  to  Wade.  He  went  to  the 
ranch-house  and  knocked  upon  the  living-room  door. 
There  was  a  light  within,  sending  rays  out  through  the 
windows  into  the  semi-darkness.  Columbine  opened  the 
door  and  admitted  Wade.  A  bright  fire  crackled  in  the 
hearth.  Wade  flashed  a  reassuring  look  at  Columbine. 

"Evenin',  Miss  Collie.     Is  your  dad  in?" 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Ben!"  she  replied,  after  her  start.  "Yes, 
dad's  here." 

The  old  rancher  looked  up  from  his  reading.  "  Howdy, 
Wade!  What  can  I  do  fer  you?" 

"Belllounds,  I've  cleaned  out  the  cats  an*  most  of  the 
varmints  on  your  range.  An'  my  work,  lately,  has  been 
all  sorts,  not  leavin'  me  any  time  for  little  jobs  of  my  own. 
An'  I  want  to  quit." 

"Wade,  you've  clashed  with  Jack!"  exclaimed  the 
rancher,  jerking  erect. 

"  Nothin'  of  the  kind.  Jack  an*  me  haven't  had  words 
for  a  good  while.  I'm  not  denyin'  we  might,  an*  probably 

243 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

would  clash  sooner  or  later.  But  that's  not  my  reason 
for  quittin'." 

Manifestly  this  put  an  entirely  different  complexion 
upon  the  matter.  Belllounds  appeared  immensely  relieved, 

"Wai,  all  right.  I'll  pay  you  at  the  end  of  the  month. 
Let's  see,  thet's  not  long  now.  You  can  lay  oft  to 
morrow." 

Wade  thanked  him  and  waited  for  further  remarks. 
Columbine  had  fixed  big,  questioning  eyes  upon  Wade, 
which  he  found  hard  to  endure.  Again  he  tried  to  flash 
her  a  message  of  reassurance.  But  Columbine  did  not 
!ose  her  look  of  blank  wonder  and  gravity. 

"Ben!  Oh,  you're  not  going  to  leave  White  Slides?*" 
she  asked. 

"Reckon  I'll  hang  around  yet  awhile,"  he  replied. 

Belllounds  was  wagging  his  head  regretfully  and  pon- 
deringly. 

"Wai,  I  remember  the  day  when  no  man  quit  me, 
Wai,  wall — times  change.  I'm  an  old  man  now.  Mebbe? 
mebbe  I'm  testy.  An'  then  thar's  thet  boy!" 

With  a  shrug  of  his  broad  shoulders  he  dismissed  what 
seemed  an  encroachment  of  pessimistic  thought. 

"Wade,  you're  packin'  off,  then,  on  the  trail?  Always 
Dn  the  go,  eh?" 

"No,  I'm  not  hurryin'  off,"  replied  Wade. 

"Wai,  might  I  ask  what  you're  figgerin'  on?" 

"Sure.  I'm  considerin'  a  cattle  deal  with  Moore, 
He's  a  pretty  keen  boy  an'  his  father  has  big  ranchin" 
interests.  I've  saved  a  little  money  an'  I'm  no  spring 
chicken  any  more.  Wils  has  begun  to  buy  ans  sell  stock. 
so  I  reckon  I'll  go  in  wHh  him." 

"Ahuh!"  Belllounds  gave  a  grunt  of  comprehension,, 
He  frowned,  and  his  big  eyes  set  seriously  upon  the  blazing 
fire.  He  grasped  complications  in  this  information. 

2i4 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wai,  it's  a  free  country,"  he  said  at  length,  and  evi 
dently  his  personal  anxieties  were  subjected  to  his  sense 
of  justice.  "Owin'  to  the  peculiar  circumstances  hyar  at 
my  range,  I'd  prefer  thet  Moore  an'  you  began  somewhat 
else.  Thet's  natural.  But  you've  my  good  will  to  start 
on  an'  I  hope  I've  yours." 

"Belllounds,  you've  every  man's  good  will,"  replied 
Wade.  "I  hope  you  won't  take  offense  at  my  leavin'. 
You  see  I'm  on  Wils  Moore's  side  in — in  what  you  called 
these  peculiar  circumstances.  He's  got  nobody  else.  An' 
I  reckon  you  can  look  back  an'  remember  how  you've 
taken  sides  with  some  poor  devil  an'  stuck  to  him.  .Can't 
you?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  I  can.  An*  I'm  not  thinkin'  less  of  you 
fer  speakin'  out  like  thet." 

"All  right.  Now  about  the  dogs.  I  turn  the  pack  over 
to  you,  an'  it's  a  good  one.  I'd  like  to  buy  Fox." 

"Buy  nothin',  man.     You  can  have  Fox,  an'  welcome." 

"Much  obliged,"  returned  the  hunter,  as  he  turned  to 
go.  "  Fox  will  sure  be  help  ior  me.  Belllounds,  I'm  goin' 
to  round  up  this  outfit  that's  rustlin'  your  cattle.  They're 
gettin'  sort  of  bold." 

"Wade,  you'll  do  thet  on  your  own  hook?"  asked  the 
rancher,  in  surprise, 

"Sure.  I  like  huntin'  men  more  than  other  varmints. 
Then  I've  a  personal  interest.  You  know  the  hint 
about  homesteaders  hereabouts  reflects  some  on  Wils 
Moore." 

"Stuff!"  exploded  the  rancher,  heartily.  "Do  you 
think  any  cattleman  in  these  hills  would  believe  Wils 
Moore  a  rustler?" 

"The  hunch  has  been  whispered,"  said  Wade.  "An9 
you  know  how  all  ranchers  say  they  rustled  a  little  on  the 
start." 

245 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

** Aw,  hell!  Thet's  different  Every  new  rancher  drives 
in  a  few  unbranded  calves  an'  keeps  them.  But  stealin' 
stock — thet's  different.  An'  I'd  as  soon  suspect  my  own 
son  of  rustlin'  as  Wils  Moore." 

Belllounds  spoke  with  a  sincere  and  frank  ardor  c*  de 
fense  for  a  young  man  once  employed  by  him  and  known 
to  be  honest.  The  significance  of  the  comparison  he  used 
had  not  struck  him.  His  was  the  epitome  of  a  success 
ful  rancher,  sure  in  his  opinions,  speaking  proudly  and 
unreflectingly  of  his  own  son,  and  being  just  to  another 
man. 

Wade  bowed  and  backed  out  of  the  door.  "  Sure  that's 
what  I'd  reckon  you'd  say,  Belllounds.  .  .  .  I'll  drop  in  on 
you  if  I  find  any  sign  in  the  woods.  Good  night." 

Columbine  went  with  him  to  the  end  of  the  porch ,  as 
she  had  used  to  go  before  the  shadow  had  settled  over 
the  lives  of  the  Belllounds. 

''Ben,  you're  up  to  something,"  she  whispered,  seizing 
him  with  hands  that  shook. 

"  Sure.     But  don't  you  worry,"  he  whispered  back. 

"Do  they  hint  that  Wilson  is  a  rustler?"  she  askeds 
Intensely. 

"Somebody  did,  Collie." 

"How  vile!  Who?  Who?"  she  demanded,  and  her 
face  gleamed  white. 

"Hush,  lass!  You're  all  a-tremble,"  he  returned, 
warily,  and  he  held  her  hands. 

"Ben,  they're  pressing  me  hard  to  set  another  wedding- 
day.  Dad  is  angry  with  me  now.  Jack  has  begun  again 
to  demand.  Oh,  I'm  afraid  of  him!  He  has  no  respect 
for  me.  He  catches  at  me  with  hands  like  claws.  I  have 
to  jerk  away.  .  .  .  Oh,  Ben,  Ben!  dear  friend,  what  on 
sarth  shall  I  do?" 

"Don't  give  inc  Fight  Jack!  Tell  the  old  man  you 

246 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

must  have  time.     Watch  your  chance  when  Jack  is  awaj 
an'  ride  up  the  Buffalo  Park  trail  an'  look  for  me." 

Wade  had  to  release  his  hands  from  her  clasp  and  urge 
her  gently  back.  How  pale  and  tragic  her  face  gleamed? 

Wade  took  his  horses,  his  outfit,  and  the  dog  Fox,  and 
made  his  abode  with  Wilson  Moore.  The  cowboy  hailed 
Wade's  coming  with  joy  and  pestered  him  with  endless 
questions. 

From  that  day  Wade  haunted  the  hills  above  White 
Slides,  early  and  late,  alone  with  his  thoughts,  his  plans, 
more  and  more  feeling  the  suspense  of  happenings  to  come. 
It  was  on  a  June  day  when  Jack  Belllounds  rode  to 
Kremmling  that  Wade  met  Columbine  on  the  Buffalo 
Park  trail.  She  needed  to  see  him,  to  find  comfort  and 
strength.  Wade  far  exceeded  his  own  confidence  in  his 
effort  to  uphold  her.  Columbine  was  in  a  strange  state 
not  of  vacillation  between  two  courses,  but  of  a  standstill, 
as  if  her  will  had  become  obstructed  and  waited  for  some 
force  to  upset  the  hindrance.  She  did  not  inquire  as  to 
the  welfare  of  Wilson  Moore,  and  Wade  vouchsafed  no 
word  of  him.  But  she  importuned  the  hunter  to  see  her 
every  day  or  no  more  at  all.  And  Wade  answered  her 
appeal  and  her  need  by  assuring  her  that  he  would  see 
her,  come  what  might.  So  she  was  to  risk  more  frequent 
rides. 

During  the  second  week  of  June  Wade  rode  up  to  visit 
•he  prospector,  Lewis,  and  learned  that  which  compli- 
oated  the  matter  of  the  rustlers.  Lewis  had  been  sus 
picious,  and  active  on  his  own  account.  According  to 
the  best  of  his  evidence  and  judgment  there  had  been  a 
gang  of  rough  men  come  of  late  to  Gore  Peak,  where  they 
presumably  were  prospecting.  This  gang  was  composed 
of  strangers  to  Lewis  They  had  ridden  to  his  cabin 

247 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

bought  and  borrowed  of  him,  and,  during  his  absence,, 
had  stolen  from  him.  He  believed  they  were  in  hiding, 
probably  being  guilty  of  some  depredation  in  another 
locality.  They  gave  both  Kremmling  a.nd  El^eria  a  wide 
berth.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Smith  gang  from  Elgeria 
rode  to  and  fro,  like  ranchers  searching  for  lost  horses. 
There  were  only  three  in  this  gang,  including  Smith. 
Lewis  had  seen  these  men  driving  unbranded  stock.  And 
lastly,  Lewis  casually  imparted  the  information,  highly 
interesting  to  Wade,  that  he  had  seen  Jack  Belllounds 
riding  through  the  forest.  The  prospector  did  not  in  the 
least,  however,  connect  the  appearance  of  the  son  of  Bell 
lounds  with  the  other  facts  so  peculiarly  interesting  to 
Wade.  Cowboys  and  hunters  rode  trails  across  the 
range,  and  though  they  did  so  rather  infrequently,  there 
Was  nothing  unusual  about  encountering  them. 

Wade  remained  all  night  with  Lewis,  and  next  morning 
rode  six  miles  along  the  divide,  and  then  down  into  a 
valley,  where  at  length  he  found  a  cabin  described  by  the 
prospector.  It  was  well  hidden  in  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
where  a  spring  gushed  from  under  a  low  cliff.  But  for 
water  and  horse  tracks  Wade  would  not  have  found  it 
easily.  Rifle  in  hand,  and  on  foot,  he  slipped  around  in 
the  woods,  as  a  hunter  might  have,  to  stalk  drinking  deer. 
There  were  no  smoke,  no  noise,  no  horses  ar  /where  round 
the  cabin,  and  after  watching  awhile  Wade  went  forward  to 
look  at  it.  It  was  an  old  ramshackle  hunter's  or  prospec 
tor's  cabin,  with  dirt  floor,  a  crumbling  fireplace  and 
chimney,  and  a  bed  platform  made  of  boughs.  Including 
the  door,  it  had  three  apertures,  and  the  two  smaller  ones, 
serving  as  windows,  looked  as  if  they  had  been  intended 
for  port-holes  as  well.  The  inside  of  the  cabin  was  large 
and  unusually  well  lighted,  owing  to  the  windows  and  to 
the  open  chinks  between  the  logs.  Wade  saw  a  deck  of 

24.8 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

cards  lying  bent  and  scattered  in  one  corner,  as  if  a  violent 
hand  had  flung  them  against  the  wall.  Strange  that 
Wade's  memory  returned  a  vivid  picture  of  Jack  Bell- 
lounds  in  just  that  act  of  violence !  The  only  other  thing 
around  the  place  which  earned  scrutiny  from  Wade  was 
a  number  of  horseshoe  tracks  outside,  with  the  left  front 
shoe  track  familiar  to  him.  He  examined  the  clearest 
imprints  very  carefully.  If  they  had  not  been  put  there 
by  Wilson  Moore's  white  mustang,  Spottie,  then  they  had 
been  made  by  a  horse  with  a  strangely  similar  hoof  and 
shoe.  Spottif  had  a  hoof  malformed,  somewhat  in  the 
shape  of  a  triangle,  and  the  iron  shoe  to  fit  it  always  had 
to  be  bent,  so  that  the  curve  was  sharp  and  the  ends 
closer  together  than  those  of  his  other  shoes. 

Wade  rode  down  to  White  Slides  that  day,  and  at  the 
evening  meal  he  casuallv  asked  Moore  if  he  had  been 
riding  Spottie  of  late. 

"Sure.  What  other  horse  could  I  ride?  Do  you  think 
I'm  up  to  trying  one  of  those  broncs?"  asked  Moore,  in 
derision. 

"  Reckon  you  haven't  been  leavin'  any  tracks  up  Buffalo 
Park  way?" 

The  cowboy  slammed  down  his  knife.  "Say,  Wade, 
are  you  growing  dotty?  Good  Lord!  if  I'd  ridden 
that  far— if  I  was  able  to  do  it — wouldn't  you  hear 
me  yell?" 

"Reckon  so,  come  to  think  of  it.  I  just  saw  a  track 
like  Spottie's,  made  two  days  ago." 

"  Well,  it  wasn't  his,  you  can  gamble  on  that,"  returned 
the  cowboy. 

Wade  spent  four  days  hiding  in  an  aspen  grove,  on  top 
of  one  of  the  highest  foothills  above  White  Slides  Ranch, 
There  he  lay  at  ease,  like  an  Indian,  calm  and  somber, 

17  2£ 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

watching  the  trails  below,  waiting  for  what  he  knew  was 
to  come. 

On  the  fifth  morning  he  was  at  his  post  at  sunrise.  A 
casual  remark  of  one  of  the  new  cowboys  the  night  before 
accounted  for  the  early  hour  of  Wade's  reconnoiter.  The 
dawn  was  fresh  and  cool,  with  sweet  odor  of  sage  on  the 
air;  the  jays  were  squalling  their  annoyance  at  this  early 
disturber  of  their  grove;  the  east  was  rosy  above  the 
black  range  and  soon  glowed  with  gold  and  then  changed 
to  fire.  The  sun  had  risen.  All  the  mountain  world  of 
black  range  and  gray  hill  and  green  valley,  with  its  shining 
stream,  was  transformed  as  if  by  magic  color.  Wade  sat 
down  with  his  back  to  an  aspen-tree,  his  gaze  down  upon 
the  ranch-house  and  the  corrals.  A  lazy  column  of  blue 
smoke  curled  up  toward  the  sky,  to  be  lost  there.  The 
burros  were  braying,  the  calves  were  bawling,  the  colts 
were  whistling.  One  of  the  hounds  bayed  full  and  clear. 

The  scene  was  pastoral  and  beautiful.  Wade  saw  it 
clearly  and  whole.  Peace  and  plenty,  a  happy  rancher's 
home,  the  joy  of  the  dawn  and  the  birth  of  summer,  the 
rewards  of  toil — all  seemed  significant  there.  But  Wade 
pondered  on  how  pregnant  with  life  that  scene  was — 
nature  in  its  simplicity  and  freedom  and  hidden  cruelty, 
and  the  existence  of  people,  blindly  hating,  loving,  sacri- 
ficing,  mostly  serving  some  noble  aim,  and  yet  with 
baseness  among  them,  the  lees  with  the  wine,  evil  inter 
mixed  with  good. 

By  and  by  the  cowboys  appeared  on  their  spring  mus 
tangs,  and  in  twos  and  threes  they  rode  off  in  different 
directions.  But  none  rode  Wade's  way.  The  sun  rose 
higher,  and  there  was  warmth  in  the  air.  Bees  began  to 
hum  by  Wade,  and  fluttering  moths  winged  uncertain 
light  over  him. 

At  the  end  of  another  hour  Jack  Belllounds  came 

250 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

of  the  house,  gazed  around  him,  and  then  stalked  to  the 
barn  where  he  kept  his  horses.  For  a  little  while  he  was 
not  in  sight;  then  he  reappeared,  mounted  on  a  white 
horse,  and  he  rode  into  the  pasture,  and  across  that  to 
the  hay-field,  and  along  the  edge  of  this  to  the  slope  of 
the  hill.  Here  he  climbed  to  a  small  clump  of  aspens. 
This  grove  was  not  so  far  from  Wilson  Moore's  cabin; 
in  fact,  it  marked  the  boundary -line  between  the  rancher's 
range  and  the  acres  that  Moore  had  acquired.  Jack 
vanished  from  sight  here,  but  not  before  Wade  had  made 
sure  he  was  dismounting. 

"Reckon  he  kept  to  that  grassy  ground  for  a  reason  of 
his  own — and  plainer  to  me  than  any  tracks,"  soliloquized 
Wade,  as  he  strained  his  eyes.  At  length  Belllounds  came 
out  of  the  grove,  and  led  his  horse  round  to  where  Wade 
knew  there  was  a  trail  leading  to  and  from  Moore's  cabin. 
At  this  point  Jack  mounted  and  rode  west.  Contrary  to 
his  usual  custom,  which  was  to  ride  hard  and  fast,  he 
trotted  the  white  horse  as  a  cowboy  might  have  done 
when  going  out  on  a  day's  work.  Wade  had  to  change 
his  position  to  watch  Belllounds,  and  his  somber  gaze 
followed  him  across  the  hill,  down  the  slope,  along  the 
willow-bordered  brook,  and  so  on  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  great  valley,  where  Jack  began  to  climb  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Buffalo  Park. 

After  Belllounds  had  disappeared  and  had  been  gone 
for  an  hour,  Wade  went  down  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hill,  found  his  horse  where  he  had  left  him,  in  a  thicket, 
and,  mounting,  he  rode  around  to  strike  the  trail  upon 
which  Belllounds  had  ridden.  The  imprint  of  fresh  horse 
tracks  showed  clear  in  the  soft  dust.  And  the  left  front 
track  had  been  made  by  a  shoe  crudely  triangular  in 
shape,  identical  with  that  peculiar  to  Wilson  Moore's 
horse. 

251 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Ahuh!"  muttered  Wade,  in  greeting  to  what  he  had 
expected  to  see.  "Well,  Buster  Jack,  it's  a  plain  trail 
now — damn  your  crooked  soul!" 

The  hunter  took  up  that  trail,  and  he  followed  it  into 
the  woods.  There  he  hesitated.  Men  who  left  crooked 
trails  frequently  ambushed  them,  and  Belllounds  had 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  tracks.  Indeed,  he  had 
chosen  the  soft,  open  ground,  even  after  he  had  left  the 
trail  to  take  to  the  grassy,  wooded  benches.  There  were 
cattle  here,  but  not  as  many  as  on  the  more  open  aspen 
slopes  across  the  valley.  After  deliberating  a  moment, 
Wade  decided  that  he  must  risk  being  caught  trailing 
Belllounds.  But  he  would  go  slowly,  trusting  to  eye  and 
ear,  to  outwit  this  strangely  acting  foreman  of  White 
Slides  Ranch. 

To  that  end  he  dismounted  and  took  the  trail.  Wade 
had  not  followed  it  far  before  he  became  convinced  that 
Belllounds  had  been  looking  in  the  thickets  for  cattle;  and 
he  had  not  climbed  another  mile  through  the  aspens  and 
spruce  before  he  discovered  that  Belllounds  was  driving 
cattle.  Thereafter  Wade  proceeded  more  cautiously.  If 
the  long  grass  had  not  been  wet  he  would  have  encoun 
tered  great  difficulty  in  trailing  Belllounds.  Evidence 
was  clear  now  that  he  was  hiding  the  tracks  of  the  cattle 
by  keeping  to  the  grassy  levels  and  slopes  which,  after 
the  sun  had  dried  them,  would  not  leave  a  trace.  There 
were  stretches  where  even  the  keen-eyed  hunter  had  to 
work  to  find  the  direction  taken  by  Belllounds.  But  here 
and  there,  in  other  localities,  there  showed  faint  signs  of 
cattle  and  horse  tracks. 

The  morning  passed,  with  Wade  slowly  climbing  to 
the  edge  of  the  black  timber.  Then,  in  a  hollow  where  a 
spring  gushed  forth,  he  saw  the  tracks  of  a  few  cattle  that 
had  halted  to  drink,  and  on  top  of  these  the  tracks  of  a 

252 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

horse  with  a  crooked  left  front  shoe.  The  rider  of  this 
horse  had  dismounted.  There  was  an  imprint  of  a  cow 
boy's  boot,  and  near  it  little  sharp  circles  with  dots  in  the 
center. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  damned ! "  ejaculated  Wade.  "  I  call  that 
mighty  cunnin'.  Here  they  are — proofs  as  plain  as 
writin'— that  Wils  Moore  rustled  Old  Bill's  cattle!  .  .  . 
Buster  Jack,  you're  not  such  a  fool  as  I  thought.  .  .  . 
He's  made  somethin'  like  the  end  of  Wils's  crutch.  An* 
knowin'  how  Wils  uses  that  every  time  he  gets  off  his 
horse,  why,  the  dirty  pup  carried  his  instrument  with  him 
an'  made  these  tracks!" 

Wade  left  the  trail  then,  and,  leading  his  horse  to  a 
covert  of  spruce,  he  sat  down  to  rest  and  think.  Was  there 
any  reason  for  following  Belllounds  farther?  It  did  not 
seem  needful  to  take  the  risk  of  being  discovered.  The 
forest  above  was  open.  No  doubt  Belllounds  would 
drive  the  cattle  somewhere  and  turn  them  over  to  his 
accomplices. 

"Buster  Jack's  outbusted  himself  this  time,  sure," 
soliloquized  Wade.  "He's  double-crossin'  his  rustler 
friends,  same  as  he  is  Moore.  For  he's  goin'  to  blame 
this  cattle-stealin'  onto  Wils.  An'  to  do  that  he's  layin' 
his  tracks  so  he  can  follow  them,  or  so  any  good  trailer 
can.  It  doesn't  concern  me  so  much  now  who 're  his 
pards  in  this  deal.  Reckon  it's  Smith  an'  some  of  hia 
gang." 

Suddenly  it  dawned  upon  Wade  that  Jack  Belllounds 
was  stealing  cattle  from  his  father.  ' '  Whew ! "  he  whistled 
softly.  "Awful  hard  on  the  old  man!  Who's  to  tell  him 
when  all  this  comes  out?  Aw,  I'd  hate  to  do  it.  I 
wouldn't.  There's  some  things  even  I'd  not  tell." 

Straightway  this  strange  aspect  of  the  case  confronted 
Wade  and  gripped  his  soul.  He  seemed  tG  feel  himself 

253 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

changing  inwardly,  as  if  a  gray,  gloomy,  sodden  hand,  as 
intangible  as  a  ghostly  dream,  had  taken  him  bodily  from 
himself  and  was  now  leading  him  into  shadows,  into 
drear,  lonely,  dark  solitude,  where  all  was  cold  and  bleak; 
and  on  and  on  over  naked  shingles  that  marked  the  world 
of  tragedy.  Here  he  must  tell  his  tcJe,  and  as  he  plodded 
on  his  relentless  leader  forced  him  to  tell  his  tale  anew. 

Wade  recognized  this  as  his  black  mood.  It  was  a 
morbid  dominance  of  the  mind.  He  fought  it  as  he 
would  have  fought  a  devil.  And  mastery  still  was  his. 
But  his  brow  was  clammy  and  his  heart  was  leaden  when 
he  had  wrested  that  somber,  mystic  control  from  his  will. 

"Reckon  I'd  do  well  to  take  up  this  trail  to-morrow  an' 
see  where  it  leads,"  he  said,  and  as  a  gloomy  man,  bur 
dened  with  thought,  he  retraced  his  way  down  the  long 
slope,  and  over  the  benches,  to  the  grassy  slopes  and  aspen 
groves,  and  thus  to  the  sage  hills. 

It  was  dark  when  he  reached  the  cabin,  and  Moore  had 
supper  almost  ready. 

"Well,  old-timer,  you  look  fagged  out,"  called  out  the 
cowboy,  cheerily.  "Throw  off  your  boots,  wash  up,  and 
come  and  get  it!" 

"Pard  Wils,  I'm  not  reboundin'  as  natural  as  I'd  like. 
I  reckon  I've  lived  some  years  before  I  got  here,  an'  a 
lifetime  since." 

"Wade,  you  have  a  queer  look,  lately,"  observed 
Moore,  shaking  his  head  solemnly.  "Why,  I've  seen  a 
dying  man  look  just  like  you — now — round  the  mouth — 
but  most  in  the  eyes!" 

"  Maybe  the  end  of  the  long  trail  is  White  Slides  Ranch," 
replied  Wade,  sadly  and  dreamily,  as  if  to  himself. 

"If  Collie  heard  you  say  that!"  exclaimed  Moore,  in 
anxious  concern. 

"Collie  an'  you  will  hear  me  say  a  lot  before  long,"  re= 

254 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

turned  Wade.     "But,  as  it's  calculated  to  make  you 
happy — why,  all's  well.     I'm  tired  an'  hungry." 

Wade  did  not  choose  to  sit  round  the  fire  that  night, 
fearing  to  invite  interrogation  from  his  anxious  friend, 
and  for  that  matter  from  his  other  inquisitively  morbid 
self. 

Next  morning,  though  Wade  felt  rested,  and  the  sky 
was  blue  and  full  of  fleecy  clouds,  and  the  melody  of  birds 
charmed  his  ear,  and  over  all  the  June  air  seemed  thick 
and  beating  with  the  invisible  spirit  he  loved,  he  sensed 
the  oppression,  the  nameless  something  that  presaged 
catastrophe. 

Therefore,  when  he  looked  out  of  the  door  to  see  Colum 
bine  swiftly  riding  up  the  trail,  her  fair  hair  flying  and 
shining  in  the  sunlight,  he  merely  ejaculated,  "Ahuh!" 

"What's  that?"  queried  Moore,  sharp  to  catch  the 
inflection. 

"Look  out,"  replied  Wade,  as  he  began  to  fill  his  pipe. 

"Heavens!  It's  Collie!  Look  at  her  riding!  Uphill, 
too!" 

Wade  followed  him  outdoors.  Columbine  was  not 
long  in  arriving  at  the  cabin,  and  she  threw  the  bridle 
and  swung  off  in  the  same  motion,  landing  with  a  light 
thud.  Then  she  faced  them,  pale,  resolute,  stern,  all  the 
sweetness  gone  to  bitter  strength — another  and  a  strange 
Columbine. 

"I've  not  slept  a  wink!"  she  said.  "And  I  came  as 
soon  as  I  could  get  away." 

Moore  had  no  word  for  her,  not  even  a  greeting.  The 
look  of  her  had  stricken  him.  It  could  have  only  one 
meaning. 

"Mornin*,  lass,"  said  the  hunter,  and  he  took  ner 
hand.  "I  couldn't  tell  you  looked  sleepy,  for  all  you 
said.  Let's  go  into  the  cabin." 

255 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

So  he  led  Columbine  in,  and  Moore  followed.  The 
girl  manifestly  was  in  a  high  state  or  agitation,  but  she 
was  neither  trembling  nor  frightened  nor  sorrowful.  Nor 
did  she  betray  any  lack  of  an  unflinching  and  indomitable 
spirit.  Wade  read  the  truth  of  what  she  imagined  was 
her  doom  in  the  white  glow  of  her,  in  the  matured  lines  of 
womanhood  that  had  come  since  yesternight,  in  the  sus 
tained  passion  of  her  look. 

"  Ben !   Wilson !   The  worst  has  come ! ' '  she  announced. 

Moore  could  not  speak.  Wade  held  Columbine's  hand 
in  both  of  his. 

"Worst!  Now,  Collie,  that's  a  terrible  word.  I've 
heard  it  many  times.  An*  all  my  life  the  worst's  been 
comin'.  An*  it  hasn't  come  yet.  You — only  twenty 
years  old — talkin'  wild — the  worst  has  come!  .  .  .  Tell 
me  your  trouble  now  an'  I'll  tell  you  where  you're  wrong." 

"Jack's  a  thief — a  cattle-thief!"  rang  Columbine's 
voice,  high  and  clear. 

"Ahuh!    Well,  go  on,"  said  Wade. 

"Jack  has  taken  money  from  rustlers — for  cattle  stolen 
from  his  father!  " 

Wade  felt  the  lift  of  her  passion,  and  he  vibrated  to  it. 

"Reckon  that's  no  news  to  me,"  he  replied. 

Then  she  quivered  up  to  a  strong  and  passionate  de 
livery  of  the  thing  that  had  transformed  her. 

"I'M  GOING  TO  MARRY  JACK  BELLLOUNDS!" 

Wilson  Moore  leaped  toward  her  with  a  cry,  to  be  held 
back  by  Wade's  hand. 

"Now,  Collie,"  he  soothed,  "tell  us  all  about  it." 
Columbine,  still  upheld  by  the  strength  of  her  spirit, 
related  how  she  had  ridden  out  the  day  before,  early  in 
the  afternoon,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  Wade.  She  rode 
over  the  sage  hills,  along  the  edges  of  the  aspen  benches, 
everywhere  that  she  might  expect  to  meet  or  see  the 

256 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

hunter,  but  as  he  did  not  appear,  and  as  she  was  greatly 
desirous  of  talking  with  him,  she  went  on  up  into  the 
woods,  following  the  line  of  the  Buffalo  Park  trail,  though 
keeping  aside  from  it.  She  rode  very  slowly  and  cau 
tiously,  remembering  Wade's  instructions.  In  this  way 
she  ascended  the  aspen  benches,  and  the  spruce-bordered 
ridges,  and  then  the  first  rise  of  the  black  forest.  Finally 
she  had  gone  farther  than  ever  before  and  farther  than 
was  wise. 

When  she  was  about  to  turn  back  she  heard  the  thud 
of  hoofs  ahead  of  her.  Pronto  shot  up  his  ears.  Alarmed 
and  anxious,  Columbine  swiftly  gazed  about  her.  It 
would  not  do  for  her  to  be  seen.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  chances  were  that  the  approaching  horse  carried  Wade. 
It  was  lucky  that  she  was  on  Pronto,  for  he  could  be 
trusted  to  stand  still  and  not  neigh.  Columbine  rode 
into  a  thick  clump  of  spruces  that  had  long,  shelving 
branches,  reaching  down.  Here  she  hid,  holding  Pronto 
motionless. 

Presently  the  sound  of  hoofs  denoted  the  approach  of 
several  horses.  That  augmented  Columbine's  anxiety. 
Peering  out  of  her  covert,  she  espied  three  horsemen  trot 
ting  along  the  trail,  and  one  of  them  was  Jack  Belllounds. 
They  appeared  to  be  in  strong  argument,  judging  from 
gestures  and  emphatic  movements  of  their  heads.  As 
chance  would  have  it  they  halted  their  horses  not  half  a 
dozen  rods  from  Columbine's  place  of  concealment.  The 
two  men  with  Belllounds  were  rough-looking,  one  of  them, 
evidently  a  leader,  having  a  dark  face  disfigured  by  a 
horrible  scar. 

Naturally  they  did  not  talk  loud,  and  Columbine  had 
to  strain  her  ears  to  catch  anything.  But  a  word  dis 
tinguished  here  and  there,  and  accompanying  actions, 
made  transparent  the  meaning  of  their  presence  and  argu* 

257 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

inent.  The  big  man  refused  to  ride  any  farther.  Evi 
dently  he  had  come  so  far  without  realizing  it.  His  im 
portunities  were  for  "more  head  of  stock."  His  scorn 
was  for  a  "measly  little  bunch  not  worth  the  risk."  His 
anger  was  for  Belllounds's  foolhardiness  in  "leavin'  a 
trail."  Belllounds  had  little  to  say,  and  most  of  that  was 
spoken  in  a  tone  too  low  to  be  heard.  His  manner  seemed 
indifferent,  even  reckless.  But  he  wanted  "money." 
The  scar-faced  man's  name  was  "Smith."  Then  Colum 
bine  gathered  from  Smith's  dogged  and  forceful  gestures, 
and  his  words,  "no  money"  and  "bigger  bunch,"  that  he. 
was  unwilling  to  pay  what  had  been  agreed  upon  unless 
Belllounds  promised  to  bring  a  larger  number  of  cattle. 
Here  Belllounds  roundly  cursed  the  rustler,  and  appar 
ently  argued  that  course  "next  to  impossible."  Smitii 
made  a  sweeping  movement  with  his  arm,  pointing  south, 
indicating  some  place  afar,  and  part  of  his  speech  was 
"Gore  Peak."  The  litt^  man,  companion  of  Smith,  got 
into  the  argument,  and,  dismounting  from  his  horse,  he 
made  marks  upon  the  smooth  earth  of  the  trail.  He  was 
drawing  a  rude  map  showing  direction  and  locality.  At 
length,  when  Belllounds  nodded  as  if  convinced  or  now 
informed,  this  third  member  of  the  party  remounted,  and 
seemed  to  have  no  more  to  say.  Belllounds  pondered 
sullenly.  He  snatched  a  switch  from  off  a  bough  over 
head  and  flicked  his  boot  and  stirrup  with  it,  an  action 
that  made  his  horse  restive.  Smith  leered  and  spoke 
derisively,  of  which  speech  Columbine  heard,  "Aw  hell!" 
and  "yellow  streak,"  and  "no  one'd  ever,"  and  "son  of 
Bill  Belllounds,"  and  "rustlin'  stock."  Then  this  scar- 
facer*  man  drew  out  a  buckskin  bag.  Either  the  con 
tempt  or  the  gold,  or  both,  overbalanced  vacillation  in 
the  weak  mind  of  Jack  Belllounds,  for  he  lifted  his  head, 
showing  his  face  pale  and  malignant,  and  without  trace 

258 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

of  shame  or  compunction  he  snatched  the  bag  of  gold, 
shouted  a  hoarse,  ''All  right,  damn  you!"  and,  wheeling 
the  white  mustang,  he  spurred  away,  quickly  disappearing. 

The  rustlers  sat  their  horses,  gazing  down  the  trail,  and 
Smith  wagged  his  dark  head  doubtfully.  Then  he  spoke 
quite  distinctly,  "I  ain't  a-trustin'  thet  Belllounds  pup!" 
and  his  comrade  replied,  "Boss,  we  ain't  stealin'  the 
Stock,  so  what  th'  hell!"  Then  they  turned  their  horses 
and  trotted  out  of  sight  and  hearing  up  the  timbered 
slope. 

Cclumbine  was  so  stunned,  and  so  frightened  and  horri 
fied,  that  she  remained  hidden  there  for  a  long  time  before 
she  ventured  forth.  Then,  heading  homeward,  she  skirted 
the  trail  and  kept  to  the  edge  of  the  forest,  making  a 
wide  detour  over  the  hills,  finally  reaching  the  ranch  at 
sunset.  Jack  did  not  appear  at  the  evening  meal.  His 
father  had  one  of  his  spells  of  depression  and  seemed  not 
to  have  noticed  her  absence.  She  lay  awake  all  night 
thinking  and  praying. 

Columbine  concluded  her  narrative  there,  and,  panting 
from  her  agitation  and  hurry,  she  gazed  at  the  bowed 
figure  of  Moore,  and  then  at  Wade. 

"I  had  to  tell  you  this  shameful  secret/'  she  began 
again.  "I'm  forced.  If  you  do  not  help  me,  if  something 
is  not  done,  there'll  be  a  horrible — end  to  all!" 

"We'll  help  you,  but  how?"  asked  Moore,  raising  a 
white  face. 

"I  don't  know  yet.  I  only  feel — I  only  feel  what  may 
happen,  if  I  don't  prevent  it.  ...  Wilson,  you  must  go 
home — at  least  for  a  while." 

"It'll  not  look  right  for  Wils  to  leave  White  Slides 
now,"  interposed  Wade,  positively. 

"But  why?    Oh,  I  fear— " 

"Never  mind  now,  lass.  It's  a  good  reason.  An*  you 
259 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

mustn't  fear  anythin'.     I  agree  with  you — we've  got  to 
prevent  this — this  that's  goin'  to  happen." 

"Oh,  Ben,  my  dear  friend,  we  must  prevent  it — you 
must!" 

"Ahuh! ...  So  I  was  figurin'." 

"Ben,  you  must  go  to  Jack  an'  tell  him — show  him  the 
peril — frighten  him  terribly — so  that  he  will  not  do — do 
this  shameful  thing  again." 

"  Lass,  I  reckon  I  could  scare  Jack  out  of  his  skin.  But 
what  good  would  that  do?" 

"It  11  stop  this — this  madness.  .  .  .  Then  I'll  marry  him 
— and  keep  him  safe — after  that!" 

"Collie,  do  you  think  marryin'  Buster  Jack  will  stop 
his  bustin'  out?" 

"Oh,  I  know  it  will.  He  had  conquered  over  the  evil 
in  him.  I  saw  that.  I  felt  it.  He  conquered  over  his 
baser  nature  for  love  of  me.  Then — when  he  heard — 
from  my  own  lips — that  I  loved  Wilson — why,  then  he 
fell.  He  didn't  care.  He  drank  again.  He  let  go.  He 
sank.  And  now  he'll  ruin  us  all.  Oh,  it  looks  as  if  he 
meant  it  that  way!  .  .  .  But  I  can  change  him.  I  will 
marry  him.  I  will  love  him — or  I  will  live  a  lie!  I  wfil 
make  him  think  I  love  him!" 

Wilson  Moore,  deadly  pale,  faced  her  with  flaming  eyes. 

"Collie,  why?  For  God's  sake,  explain  why  you  will 
shame  your  womanhood  and  ruin  me — all  for  that  coward 
—that  thief?" 

Columbine  broke  from  Wade  and  ran  to  Wilson,  as  if 
to  clasp  him,  but  something  halted  her  and  she  stood 
before  him. 

"Because  dad  will  kill  him!"  she  cried. 

"My  God!  what  are  you  saying?"  exclaimed  Moore, 
incredulously.  "Old  Bill  would  roar  and  rage,  but  hurt 
that  boy  of  his — never!" 

260 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wils,  I  reckon  Collie  is  right.  You  haven't  got  Old 
Bill  figured.  I  know,"  interposed  Wade,  with  one  of  his 
forceful  gestures. 

"  Wilson,  listen,  and  don't  set  your  heart  against  me. 
For  I  must  do  this  thing,"  pleaded  Columbine.  "I  heard 
dad  swear  he'd  kill  Jack.  Oh,  I'll  never  forget!  He  was 
terrible!  If  he  ever  finds  out  that  Jack  stole  from  his 
own  father — stole  cattle  like  a  common  rustler,  and  sold 
them  for  gold  to  gamble  and  drink  with — he  will  kill  him  I 
.  .  .  That's  as  true  as  fate.  .  .  .  Think  how  horrible  that 
would  be  for  me!  Because  I'm  to  blame  here,  mostly, 
I  fell  in  love  with  you,  Wilson  Moore,  otherwise  I  could 
have  saved  Jack  already. 

"But  it's  not  that  I  think  of  myself.  Dad  has  loved  me. 
He  has  been  as  a  father  to  me.  You  know  he's  not  my 
real  father.  Oh,  if  I  only  had  a  real  one!  .  .  .  And  I  owe 
him  so  much.  But  then  it's  not  because  I  owe  him  or 
because  I  love  him.  It's  because  of  his  own  soul!  .  .  . 
That  splendid,  noble  old  man,  who  has  been  so  good  to 
every  one — who  had  only  one  fault,  and  that  love  of  his 
son — must  he  be  let  go  in  blinded  and  insane  rage  at  the 
failure  of  his  life,  the  ruin  of  his  son — must  he  be  allowed 
to  kill  his  own  flesh  and  blood?  ...  It  would  be  murder! 
It  would  damn  dad's  soul  to  everlasting  torment.  No! 
No!  I'll  not  let  that  be!" 

"Collie — how  about — your  own  soul?"  whispered 
Moore,  lifting  himself  as  if  about  to  expend  a  tremendous 
breath. 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  she  replied. 

"Collie — Collie — "  he  stammered,  but  could  not  go  on. 

Then  it  seemed  to  Wade  that  they  both  turned  to  him 
unconscious  of  the  inevitableness  of  his  relation  to  this 
catastrophe,  yet  looking  to  him  for  the  spirit,  the  guidance 
that  became  habitual  to  them.  It  brought  the  warm 

261 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

blood  back  to  Wade's  cold  heart.  It  was  his  great  re 
ward.  How  intensely  and  implacably  did  his  soul  mount 
to  that  crisis! 

"Collie,  I'll  never  fail  you,"  he  said,  and  his  gentle 
voice  was  deep  and  full.  "If  Jack  can  be  scared  into 
haltin'  in  his  mad  ride  to  hell — then  I'll  do  it.  I'm  not 
promisin'  so  much  fox  him.  But  I'll  swear  to  you  that 
Old  Belllounds's  hands  will  never  be  stained  with  his  son's 
blood!" 

"Oh,  Ben!  Ben!"  she  cried,  in  passionate  gratitude. 
"I'll  love  you — bless  you  all  my  life!" 

"Hush,  lass!  I'm  not  one  to  bless.  .  .  .  An*  now  you 
must  do  as  I  say.  Go  home  an'  tell  them  you'll  marry 
Jack  in  August.  Say  August  thirteenth." 

"So  long!  Oh,  why  put  it  off?  Wouldn't  it  be  better 
— safer,  to  settle  it  all — once  and  forever?" 

"No  man  can  tell  every  thin*.  But  that's  my  judg 
ment." 

"Why  August  thirteenth?"  she  queried,  with  strange 
curiosity.  ' '  An  unlucky  date ! ' ' 

"Well,  it  just  happened  to  come  to  my  mind — that 
date,"  replied  Wade,  in  his  slow,  soft  voice  of  reminis 
cence.  "I  was  married  on  August  thirteenth — twenty- 
one  years  ago.  .  .  .  An',  Collie,  my  wife  looked  somethin* 
like  you.  Isn't  that  strange,  now?  It's  a  little  world. 
.  .  .  An'  she's  been  gone  eighteen  years!" 

"Ben,  I  never  dreamed  you  ever  had  a  wife,"  said 
Columbine,  softly,  with  her  hands  going  to  his  shoulder. 
"You  must  tell  me  of  her  some  day.  .  .  .  But  now — if  you 
want  time — if  you  think  it  best — I'll  not  marry  Jack  till 
August  thirteenth." 

"That  11  give  me  time,"  replied  Wade.  "I'm  thinkin' 
Jack  ought  to  be — reformed,  let's  call  it — before  you 
marry  him.  If  all  you  say  is  true — why  we  can  turn  hko 

262 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

round.  Your  promise  will  do  most.  ...  So.  then,  it's 
settled?" 

"Yes — dear — friends,"  faltered  the  girl,  tremulously,  on 
the  verge  of  a  breakdown,  now  that  the  ordeal  was  past. 

Wilson  Moore  stood  gazing  out  of  the  door,  his  eyes  far 
away  on  the  gray  slopes. 

"Queer  how  things  turn  out,"  he  said,  dreamily. 
"August  thirteenth!  .  .  .  That's  about  the  time  the  colum 
bines  blow  on  the  hills.  .  .  .  And  I  always  meant  colum 
bine-time — " 

Here  he  sharply  interrupted  himself,  and  the  dreamy 
musing  gave  way  to  passion.  "But  I  mean  it  yet!  I'll 
— I'll  die  before  I  give  up  hope  of  you! " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WADE,  watching  Columbine  ride  down  the  slope  on 
her  homeward  way,  did  some  of  the  hardest  think 
ing  he  had  yet  been  called  upon  to  do.  It  was  not  neces 
sary  to  acquaint  Wilson  Moore  with  the  deeper  and  more 
subtle  motives  that  had  begun  to  actuate  him.  It  would 
not  utterly  break  the  cowboy's  spirit  to  live  in  suspense. 
Columbine  was  safe  for  the  present.  He  had  insured  her 
against  fatality.  Time  was  all  he  needed.  Possibility  of 
an  actual  consummation  of  her  marriage  to  Jack  Bell- 
lounds  did  not  lodge  for  an  instant  in  Wade's  conscious 
ness.  In  Moore's  case,  however,  the  present  moment 
seemed  critical.  What  should  he  tell  Moore — what  should 
he  conceal  from  him? 

"Son,  come  in  here,"  he  called  to  the  cowboy. 

"Pard,  it  looks — bad!"  said  Moore,  brokenly. 

Wade  looked  at  the  tragic  face  and  cursed  under  his 
breath. 

"  Buck  up !  It's  never  as  bad  as  it  looks.  Anyway,  we 
know  now  what  to  expect,  an'  that's  well." 

Moore  shook  his  head.  "Couldn't  you  see  how  like 
steel  Collie  was?  .  .  .  But  I'm  on  to  you,  Wade.  You 
think  by  persuading  Collie  to  put  that  marriage  off  that 
we'll  gain  time.  You're  gambling  with  time.  You  swear 
Buster  Jack  will  hang  himself.  You  won't  quit  fighting 
this  deal." 

"Buster  Jack  has  slung  the  noose  over  a  tree,  an*  he's 
about  ready  to  slip  his  head  into  it,"  replied  Wade» 

264 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Bah!  .  .  .  You  drive  me  wild,"  cried  Moore,  passion 
ately.  "How  can  you?  Where's  all  that  feeling  you 
seemed  to  have  for  me?  You  nursed  me — you  saved  my 
leg — and  my  life.  You  must  have  cared  about  me.  But 
now — you  talk  about  that  dolt — that  spoiled  old  man's 
pet — that  damned  cur,  as  if  you  believed  he'd  ruin  him 
self.  No  such  luck!  no  such  hope!  .  .  .  Every  day  things 
grow  worse.  Yet  the  worse  they  grow  the  stronger  you 
seem!  It's  all  out  of  proportion.  It's  dreams.  Wade, 
I  hate  to  say  it,  but  I'm  sure  you're  not  always — just  right 
in  your  mind." 

"Wils,  now  ain't  that  queer?"  replied  Wade,  sadly 
"I'm  agreein'  with  you." 

"Aw!"  Moore  shook  himself  savagely  and  laid  an 
affectionate  and  appealing  arm  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 
"Forgive  me,  pard!  .  .  .  It's  me  who's  out  of  his  head. 
.  .  .  But  my  heart's  broken." 

"That's  what  you  think,"  rejoined  Wade,  stoutly. 
"But  a  man's  heart  can't  break  in  a  day.  I  know.  .  .  . 
An'  the  God's  truth  is  Buster  Jack  will  hang  himself!" 

Moore  raised  his  head  sharply,  flinging  himself  back 
from  his  friend  so  as  to  scrutinize  his  face.  Wade  felt 
the  piercing  power  of  that  gaze. 

"Wade,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Collie  told  us  some  interestin'  news  about  Jack,  didn't 
she?  Well,  she  didn't  know  what  I  know.  Jack  Bell- 
lounds  had  laid  a  cunnin'  an'  devilish  trap  to  prove  you 
guilty  of  rustlin'  his  father's  cattle." 

"Absurd!"  ejaculated  Moore,  with  white  lips. 

"I'd  never  given  him  credit  for  brains  to  hatch  such  a 
plot,"  went  on  Wade.  "  Now  listen.  Not  long  ago  Buster 
Jack  made  a  remark  in  front  of  the  whole  outfit,  includin' 
his  father,  that  the  homesteaders  on  the  range  were 
rustlin'  cattle.  It  fell  sort  of  flat,  that  remark.  But  no 
18  265 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

one  could  calculate  on  his  infernal  cunnin*.  I  quit  workin1 
for  Belllounds  that  night,  an'  I've  put  my  time  in  spyin* 
on  the  boy.  In  my  day  I've  done  a  good  deal  of  spying 
but  I've  never  run  across  any  one  slicker  than  Buster 
Jack.  To  cut  it  short — he  got  himself  a  white-speckled 
mustang  that's  a  dead  ringer  for  Spcttie.  He  measured 
the  tracks  of  your  horse's  left  front  foot — the  bad  hoof, 
you  know,  an'  he  made  a  shoe  exactly  the  same  as  Spottie 
wears.  Also,  he  made  some  kind  of  a  contraption  that's 
like  the  end  of  your  crutch.  These  he  packs  with  him. 
I  saw  him  ride  across  the  pasture  to  hide  his  tracks,  climb 
up  the  sage  for  the  same  reason,  an'  then  hide  in  that 
grove  of  aspens  over  there  near  the  trail  you  use.  Here, 
vou  can  bet,  he  changed  shoes  on  the  left  front  foot  of  his 
horse.  Then  he  took  to  the  trail,  an'  he  left  tracks  for 
a  while,  an'  then  he  was  careful  to  hide  them  again.  He 
stole  his  father's  stock  an'  drove  it  up  over  the  grassy 
benches  where  even  you  or  I  couldn't  track  him  next  day. 
But  up  on  top,  when  it  suited  him,  he  left  some  horse 
tracks,  an'  in  the  mud  near  a  spring-hole  he  gets  off  his 
horse,  steppin'  with  one  foot — an'  makin'  little  circles 
with  dots  like  those  made  by  the  end  of  your  crutch. 
Then  'way  over  in  the  woods  there's  a  cabin  where  he 
meets  his  accomplices.  Here  he  leaves  the  same  horse 
tracks  an'  crutch  tracks.  .  .  .  Simple  as  a  b  c,  Wils,  when 
you  see  how  he  did  it.  But  I'll  tell  you  straight — if  I 
hadn't  been  suspicious  of  Buster  Jack — that  trick  of  his 
would  have  made  you  a  rustler! " 

4 'Damn  him!"  hissed  the  cowboy,  in  utter  consterna 
tion  and  fury. 

' '  Ahuh !    That 's  my  sentiment  exactly. ' ' 

"I  swore  to  Collie  I'd  never  kill  him!" 

"Sure  you  did,  son.  An'  you've  got  to  keep  that 
oath.  I  pin  you  down  to  it.  You  can't  break  faith 

266 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDEP 

with  Collie.  .  .  .  An*  you  don't  want  his  bad  blood 
on  your  hands." 

"No!  No!"  he  replied,  violently  "Of  course  I  don't, 
I  won't.  But  God  1  how  sweet  it  would  be  to  tear  out  his 
lying  tongue — to — " 

"I  reckon  it  would.  Only  don't  talk  about  that,"  in 
terrupted  Wade,  bluntly.  "You  see,  now,  don't  your 
how  he's  about  hanged  himself." 

"  No,  pard,  I  don't.  We  can't  squeal  that  on  him,  any 
more  than  we  can  squeal  what  Collie  told  us." 

"Son,  you're  young  in  dealin'  with  crooked  men.  You 
don't  get  the  drift  of  motives.  Buster  Jack  is  not  only 
robbin'  his  father  an'  hatchin'  a  dirty  trap  for  you,  but 
he's  double-crossin'  the  rustlers  he's  sellin'  the  cattle  to. 
He's  riskin'  their  necks.  He's  goin'  to  find  your  tracks, 
showin'  you  dealt  with  them.  Sure,  he  won't  give  them 
awc  v ,  an'  he's  figurin'  on  their  gettin'  out  of  it,  maybe  by 
.eavin'  the  range,  or  a  shootin'-fray,  or  some  way.  The 
big  thing  with  Jack  is  that  he's  goin'  to  accuse  you  of 
rustlin'  an'  show  your  tracks  to  his  father.  Well,  that's 
a  risk  he's  given  the  rustlers.  It  happens  that  I  know 
this  scar-face  Smith.  We've  met  before.  Now  it's  easy 
to  see  from  what  Collie  heard  that  Smith  is  not  trustin* 
Buster  Jack.  So,  all  underneath  this  Jack  Belllounds's 
game,  there's  forces  workin'  unbeknown  to  him,  beyond 
his  control,  an'  sure  to  ruin  him." 

"I  see.  I  see.  By  Heaven!  Wade,  nothing  else  but 
ruin  seems  possible ! . .  .  But  suppose  it  works  out  his  way  * 
. .  .  What  then  ?  What  of  Collie  ? " 

"Son,  I've  not  got  that  far  along  in  my  reckoning 
replied  Wade. 

"But  for  my  sake — think.  If  Buster  Jack  gets  away 
with  his  trick — if  he  doesn't  hang  himself  by  some  blunder 
or  fit  of  temper  or  spree — what  then  of  Collie?" 

267 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Wade  could  not  answer  this  natural  and  inevitable 
query  for  the  reason  that  he  had  found  it  impossible  of 
/consideration. 

"Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  he  replied. 

"Wade,  you've  said  that  before.  It  helped  me.  But 
now  I  need  more  than  a  few  words  from  the  Bible.  My 
faith  is  low.  I ...  oh,  I  tried  to  pray  because  Collie  told 
me  she  had  prayed !  But  what  are  prayers  ?  We're  deal 
ing  with  a  stubborn,  iron-willed  old  man  who  idolizes 
his  son;  we're  dealing  with  a  crazy  boy,  absolutely  self- 
centered,  crafty,  and  vicious,  who'll  stop  at  nothing. 
And,  lastly,  we're  dealing  with  a  girl  who's  so  noble  and 
high-souled  that  she'll  sacrifice  her  all — her  life  to  pay 
her  debt.  If  she  were  really  Bill  Belllounds's  daughter 
she'd  never  marry  Jack,  saying,  of  course,  that  he  was  not 
her  brother.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  that  it  will  kill  her,  if  she 
marries  him?" 

"Ahuh!  I  reckon  it  would,"  replied  Wade,  with  his 
hea'd  bowed.  Moore  roused  his  gloomy  forebodings.  He 
did  not  care  to  show  this  feeling  or  the  effect  the  cowboy's 
pleading  had  upon  him. 

"  Ah !  so  you  admit  it  ?    Well,  then,  what  of  Collie  ? " 

"If  she  marries  him — she'll  have  to  die,  I  suppose," 
replied  Wade. 

Then  Wilson  Moore  leaped  at  his  friend  and  with  un 
gentle  hands  lifted  him,  pushed  him  erect. 

' '  Damn  you,  Wade !  You're  not  square  with  me !  You 
don't  tell  me  all!"  he  cried,  hoarsely 

"  Now,  Wils,  you're  set  up.  I've  told  you  all  I  know. 
I  swear  that." 

"But  you  couldn't  stand  the  thought  of  Collie  dying 
for  that  brute!  You  couldn't!  Oh,  I  know.  I  can  feel 
some  things  that  are  hard  to  tell.  So,  you're  either  out 
of  your  head  or  you've  something  up  your  sleeve.  It's 

26$ 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

hard  to  explain  how  you  affect  me.  One  minute  I'm 
ready  to  choke  you  for  that  damned  strangeness — what 
ever  it  is.  The  next  minute  I  feel  it — I  trust  it,  myself, 
. . .  Wade,  you're  not — you  can't  be  infallible!" 

"I'm  only  a  man,  Wils,  an'  your  friend.  I  reckon  you 
do  find  me  queer.  But  that's  no  matter.  Now  let's 
look  at  this  deal — each  from  his  own  side  of  the  fence. 
An'  each  actin'  up  to  his  own  lights!  You  do  what  your 
conscience  dictates,  always  thinkin'  of  Collie — not  of 
yourself!  AnJ  I'll  live  up  to  my  principles.  Can  we  do 
more?" 

"No,  indeed.  Wade,  we  can't,"  replied  Moore,  elo 
quently. 

"Well,  then,  here's  my  hand.  I've  talked  too  much, 
I  reckon.  An'  the  time  for  talkin'  is  past." 

In  silence  Moore  gripped  the  hand  held  out  to  him,  try 
ing  to  read  Wade's  mind,  apparently  once  more  uplifted 
and  strengthened  by  that  which  he  could  not  divine. 

Wade's-  observations  during  the  following  week  brought 
forth  the  fact  that  Jack  Belllounds  was  not  letting  any 
grass  grow  under  his  feet.  He  endeavored  to  fulfil  his 
agreement  with  Smith,  and  drove  a  number  of  cattle 
by  moonlight.  These  were  part  of  the  stock  that  the 
rancher  had  sold  to  buyers  at  Kremmling,  and  which 
had  been  collected  and  held  in  the  big,  fenced  pasture 
down  the  valley  next  to  the  Andrews  ranch.  The  loss 
was  not  discovered  until  the  cattle  had  been  counted  at 
Kremmling.  Then  they  were  credited  to  loss  by  straying. 
In  driving  a  considerable  herd  of  half -wild  steers,  with  an 
inadequate  force  of  cowboys,  it  was  no  unusual  thing  to 
lose  a  number. 

Wade,  however,  was  in  possession  of  the  facts  not  later 
than  the  day  after  this  midnight  steal  in  the  moonlight, 

269 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

He  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  no  one  would  have 
believed  it  possible  for  Jack  Belllounds  to  perform  a  feat 
which  might  well  have  been  difficult  for  the  best  of  cow 
boys.  But  Jack  accomplished  it  and  got  back  home 
before  daylight.  And  Wade  was  bound  to  admit  that 
circumstantial  evidence  against  Wilson  Moore,  which,  of 
course,  Jack  Belllounds  would  soon  present,  would  be 
damning  and  apparently  irrefutable. 

Waiting  for  further  developments,  Wade  closely  watched 
the  ranch-house,  which  duty  interfered  with  his  attention 
to  the  outlying  trails.  What  he  did  not  want  to  miss  was 
being  present  when  Jack  Belllounds  accused  Wilson  Moore 
of  rustling  cattle. 

So  it  chanced  that  Wade  was  chatting  with  the  cowboys 
sme  Sunday  afternoon  when  Jack,  accompanied  by  three 
strangers,  all  mounted  on  dusty,  tired  horses,  rode  up  to 
the  porch  and  dismounted. 

Lem  Billings  manifested  unusual  excitement. 

"Montana,  ain't  thet  Sheriff  Burley  from  Kremmlm' ? " 
he  queried. 

' '  Shore  looks  like  him. . . .  Yep,  thet 's  him .  Now,  what's 
doin'?" 

The  cowboys  exchanged  curious  glances,  and  then 
turned  to  Wade. 

"Bent,  what  do  you  make  of  thet?"  asked  Lem.  as  he 
waved  his  hand  toward  the  house.  "Buster  Jack  ridin' 
up  with  Sheriff  Burley." 

The  rancher,  Belllounds,  who  was  on  the  porch,  greeted 
vhe  visitors,  and  then  they  all  went  into  the  house. 

"Boys,  it's  what  I've  been  lookin'  for,"  replied  Wade. 

"Shore.  Reckon  we  all  have  idees.  An'  if  my  idee  is 
correct  I'm  agoin'  to  git  pretty  damn  sore  pronto,"  de 
clared  Lem. 

They  were  all  silent  for  a  few  moments,  meditating  over 

270 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

this  singular  occurrence,  and  watching  the  house.  Pres 
ently  Old  Bill  Belllounds  strode  oui  upon  the  porch,  and, 
walking  out  into  the  court,  he  peered  around  as  if  looking 
for  some  one.  Then  he  espied  the  little  group  of  cow 
boys. 

"  Hey ! "  he  yelled  " One  of  you  beys  ride  up  an'  fetch 
Wils  Moore  down  hyar!" 

"All  right,  boss,"  called  Lem,  in  reply,  as  he  got  up  and 
gave  a  hitch  to  his  belt. 

The  rancher  hurried  back,  head,  down,  as  if  burdened. 

"Wade,  I  reckon  you  want  to  go  fetch  Wils?"  queried 
Lem. 

"If  it's  all  the  same  to  you.  I'd  rather  not,"  replied 
Wade. 

"By  Golly!  I  don't  blame  you.  Boys,  shore 'n  hell, 
Burley's  after  Wils." 

"Wai,  suppos'n'  he  is,"  said  Montana.  "You  can 
gamble  Wils  ain't  agoin'  to  run.  I'd  jest  like  to  see  him 
face  thet  outfit.  Burley's  a  pretty  square  fellar.  An'  he's 
no  fool." 

"It's  as  plain  as  your  nose,  Montana,  an'  thet's  shore 
big  enough,"  returned  Lem,  with  a  hard  light  in  his  eyes. 
"Buster  Jack's  busted  out,  an'  he's  figgered  Wils  in  some 
deal  thet's  rung  in  the  sheriff.  Wai,  I'll  fetch  Wils." 
And,  growling  to  himself,  the  cowboy  slouched  off  after 
his  horse. 

Wade  got  up,  deliberate  and  thoughtful,  and  started 
away. 

"Say,  Bent,  you're  shore  goin'  to  see  what's  up?"  asked 
Montana,  in  surprise. 

"I'll  be  around,  Jim,"  replied  Wade,  and  he  strolled 
off  to  be  alone.  He  wanted  to  think  over  this  startling 
procedure  of  Jack  Belllounds's.  Wade  was  astonished. 
He  had  expected  that  an  accusation  would  be  made 

271 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

against  Moore  by  Jack,  and  an  exploitation  of  such  proofs 
as  had  been  craftily  prepared,  but  he  had  never  imagined 
Jack  would  be  bold  enough  to  carry  matters  so  far. 
Sheriff  Burley  was  a  man  of  wide  experience,  keen,  prac 
tical,  shrewd.  He  was  also  one  of  the  countless  men 
Wade  had  rubbed  elbows  with  in  the  eventful  past.  It 
had  been  Wade's  idea  that  Jack  would  be  satisfied  to  face 
his  father  with  the  accusation  of  Moore,  and  thus  cover 
his  tracks.  Whatever  Old  Belllounds  might  have  felt 
over  the  loss  of  a  few  cattle,  he  would  never  have  hounded 
and  arrested  a  cowboy  who  had  done  well  by  him.  Bur- 
ley,  however,  was  a  sheriff,  and  a  conscientious  one,  and 
he  happened  to  be  particularly  set  against  rustlers. 

Here  was  a  complication  of  circumstances.  What  would 
Jack  Belllounds  insist  upon ?  How  would  Columbine  take 
this  plot  against  the  honor  and  liberty  of  Wilson  Moore? 
How  would  Moore  himself  react  to  it?  Wade  confessed 
that  he  was  helpless  to  solve  these  queries,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  a  further  one,  insistent  and  gathering — what 
was  to  be  his  own  attitude  here?  That  could  not  be  an 
swered,  either,  because  only  a  future  moment,  over  which 
he  had  no  control,  and  which  must  decide  events,  held 
that  secret.  Worry  beset  Wade,  but  he  still  found  him 
self  proof  against  the  insidious  gloom  ever  hovering  near, 
like  his  shadow. 

He  waited  near  the  trail  to  intercept  Billings  and  Moore 
on  their  way  to  the  ranch-house;  and  to  his  surprise  they 
appeared  sooner  than  it  would  have  been  reasonable  to 
expect  them.  Wade  stepped  out  of  the  willows  and  held 
up  his  hand.  He  did  not  see  anything  unusual  in  Moore's 
appearance. 

"Wils,  I  reckon  we'd  do  well  to  talk  this  over,"  said 
Wade. 

"Talk  what  over?"  queried  the  cowboy,  sharply. 

272 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Why,  Old  Bill's  sendiii'  for  you,  an'  the  fact  of  Sheriff 
Burley  bein'  here." 

"Talk  nothing.  Let's  see  what  they  want,  and  then 
talk.  Pard,  you  remember  the  agreement  we  made  not 
long  ago?" 

"Sure.     But  I'm  sort  of  worried,  an'  maybe — " 

"  You  needn't  worry  about  me.  Come  on,"  interrupted 
Moore.  "I'd  like  you  to  be  there.  And,  Lem,  fetch  the 
boys." 

"I  shore  will,  an*  if  you  need  any  backin'  you'll 
git  it." 

When  they  reached  the  open  Lem  turned  off  toward 
the  corrals,  and  Wade  walked  beside  Moore's  horse  up 
to  the  house. 

Belllounds  appeared  at  the  door,  evidently  having  heard 
the  sound  of  hoofs. 

"Hello,  Moore!  Get  down  an*  come  in,"  he  said, 
gruffly. 

"Belllounds,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you  I'll  take  mine  in 
the  open,"  replied  the  cowboy,  coolly. 

The  rancher  looked  troubled.  He  did  not  have  the  eas<* 
and  force  habitual  to  him  in  big  moments. 

"Come  out  hyar,  you  men,"  he  called  in  the  door. 

Voices,  heavy  footsteps,  the  clinking  of  spurs,  preceded 
the  appearance  of  the  three  strangers,  followed  by  Jack 
Belllounds.  The  foremost  was  a  tall  man  in  black,  sandy- 
haired  and  freckled,  with  clear  gray  eyes,  and  a  drooping 
mustache  that  did  not  hide  stern  lips  and  rugged  chin. 
He  wore  a  silver  star  on  his  vest,  packed  a  gun  in  a  greasy 
holster  worn  low  down  on  his  right  side,  and  under  his 
left  arm  he  carried  a  package. 

It  suited  Wade,  then,  to  step  forward;  and  if  he  ex 
pected  surprise  and  pleasure  to  break  across  the  sheriff's 
stern  face  he  certainly  had  not  reckoned  in  vain. 

273 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Wai,  I'm  a  son-of-a-gun!"  ejaculated  Burley,  bending 
low,  with  quick  movement,  to  peer  at  Wade. 

"  Howdy,  Jim.  How's  tricks ?"  said  Wade,  extending  his 
hand,  and  the  smile  that  came  so  seldom  illumined  his 
sallow  face. 

"Hell-Bent  Wade,  as  I'm  a  born  sinner!"  shouted  the 
sheriff,  and  his  hand  leaped  out  to  grasp  Wade's  and  grip 
it  and  wring  it.  His  face  worked.  "My  Gawd!  I'm  glad 
to  see  you,  old- timer!  Wai,  you  haven't  changed  at  all! 
.  .  .  Ten  years!  How  time  flies!  An'  it's  shore  you?" 

"Same,  Jim,  an'  powerful  glad  to  meet  you,"  replied 
Wade. 

"Shake  hands  with  Bridges  an'  Lindsay,"  said  Burley, 
indicating  his  two  comrades.  "Stockmen  from  Grand 
Lake.  .  .  .  Boys,  you've  heerd  me  talk  about  him.  Wade 
an'  I  was  both  in  the  old  fight  at  Blair's  rai>ch  on  the 
Gunnison.  An'  I've  shore  reason  to  recollect  him!  .  .  . 
Wade,  what  're  you  doin'  up  in  these  diggin's?" 

"  Drifted  over  last  fall,  Jim,  an'  have  been  huntin'  var 
mints  for  Belllounds,"  replied  Wade.  "Cleaned  the 
range  up  fair  to  middlin'.  An'  since  I  quit  Belllounds 
I've  been  hangin'  round  with  my  young  pard  here,  Wils 
Moore,  an'  interestin'  myself  in  lookin'  up  cattle  tracks." 

Burley's  back  was  toward  Belllounds  and  his  son,  so  it 
was  impossible  for  them  to  see  the  sudden  little  curious 
light  that  gleamed  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  hard  at  Wade, 
and  then  at  Moore. 

"Wils  Moore.  How  d'ye  do?  I  reckon  I  remember 
you,  though  I  don't  ride  up  this  way  much  of  late  years." 

The  cowboy  returned  the  greeting  civilly  enough,  but 
with  brevity. 

Belllounds  cleared  his  throat  and  stepped  forward. 
His  manner  showed  he  had  a  distasteful  business  at 
hand. 

274 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"  Moore,  I  sent  for  you  on  a  serious  matter,  I'm  sorry 
to  say." 

"Well,  here  I  am.  What  is  it?"  returned  the  cowboy, 
with  clear,  hazel  eyes,  full  of  fire,  steady  on  the  old 
rancher's. 

"Jack,  you  know,  is  foreman  of  White  Slides  now.  An* 
he's  made  a  charge  against  you." 

"Then  let  him  face  me  with  it,"  snapped  Moore. 

Jack  Belllounds  came  forward,  hands  in  his  pockets, 
self-possessed,  even  a  little  swaggering,  and  his  pale  face 
and  bold  eyes  showed  the  gravity  of  the  situation  and  his 
mastery  over  it. 

Wade  watched  this  meeting  of  the  rivals  and  enemies 
with  an  attention  powerfully  stimulated  by  the  pene 
trating  scrutiny  Burley  laid  upon  them.  Jack  did  not 
speak  quickly.  He  looked  hard  into  the  tense  face  of 
Moore.  Wade  detected  a  vibration  of  Jack's  frame  and 
a  gleam  of  eye  that  showed  him  not  wholly  in  control  of 
exultation  and  revenge.  Fear  had  not  struck  him  yet. 

"Well,  Buster  Jack,  what's  the  charge?"  demanded 
Moore,  impatiently. 

The  old  name,  sharply  flung  at  Jack  by  this  cowboy, 
seemed  to  sting  and  reveal  and  inflame.  But  he  re 
strained  himself  as  with  roving  glance  he  searched  Moore's 
person  for  sight  of  a  weapon.  The  cowboy  was  unarmed. 

"I  accuse  you  of  stealing  my  father's  cattle,"  declared 
Jack,  in  low,  husky  accents.  After  he  got  the  speech  out 
he  swallowed  hard. 

Moore's  face  turned  a  dead  white.  For  a  fleeting  in 
stant  a  red  and  savage  gleam  flamed  in  his  steady  glance. 
Then  it  vanished. 

The  cowboys,  who  had  come  up,  moved  restlessly. 
Lem  Billings  dropped  his  head,  muttering.  Montana  Jim 
froze  in  his  tracks. 

275 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Moore's  dark  eyes,  scornful  and  piercing,  never  moved 
from  Jack's  face.  It  seemed  as  if  the  cowboy  would  nevet 
speak  again. 

"  You  call  me  thief !     You?  "  at  length  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Belllounds,  loudly. 

"Before  this  sheriff  and  your  father  you  accuse  me  of 
stealing  cattle?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  accuse  me  before  this  man  who  saved  my 
life,  who  knows  me — before  Hell-Bent  Wade?"  demanded 
Moore,  as  he  pointed  to  the  hunter. 

Mention  of  Wade  in  that  significant  tone  of  passion  and 
wonder  was  not  without  effect  upon  Jack  Belllounds. 

"What  in  hell  do  I  care  for  Wade?"  he  burst  out,  with 
the  old  intolerance.  "Yes,  I  accuse  you.  Thief,  rustler! 
.  .  .  And  for  all  I  know  your  precious  Hell-Bent  Wade 
may  be — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  Burley's  quick  and  authoritative 
interference. 

"Hyar,  young  man,  I'm  allowin'  for  your  natural 
feelin's,"  he  said,  dryly,  "but  I  advise  you  to  bite  your 
tongue.  I  ain't  acquainted  with  Mister  Moore,  but  I 
happen  to  know  Wade.  Do  you  savvy?  .  .  .  Wai,  then, 
if  you've  any  more  to  say  to  Moore  get  it  over." 

"I've  had  my  say,"  replied  Belllounds,  sullenly. 

"On  what  grounds  do  you  accuse  me?"  demanded 
Moore. 

"I  trailed  you.     I've  got  my  proofs." 

Burley  stepped  off  the  porch  and  carefully  laid  down 
his  package. 

"Moore,  will  you  get  off  your  hoss?"  he  asked.  And 
when  the  cowboy  had  dismounted  and  limped  aside  the 
sheriff  continued,  "Is  this  the  hoss  you  ride  most?" 

"He's  the  only  one  I  have." 

276 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Burley  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  the  porch  and,  care 
fully  unwrapping  the  package,  he  disclosed  some  pieces 
of  hard-baked  yellow  mud.  The  smaller  ones  bore  the 
imprint  of  a  circle  with  a  dot  in  the  center,  very  clearly 
defined.  The  larger  piece  bore  the  imperfect  but  reason 
ably  clear  track  of  a  curiously  shaped  horseshoe,  somewhat 
triangular.  The  sheriff  placed  these  pieces  upon  the 
ground.  Then  he  laid  hold  of  Moore's  crutch,  which  was 
carried  like  a  rifle  in  a  sheath  hanging  from  the  saddle, 
and,  drawing  it  forth,  he  carefully  studied  the  round  cap 
on  the  end.  Next  he  inserted  this  end  into  both  the  little 
circles  on  the  pieces  of  mud.  They  fitted  perfectly.  The 
cowboys  bent  over  to  get  a  closer  view,  and  Billings  was 
wagging  his  head.  Old  Belllounds  had  an  earnest  eye  for 
them,  also.  Burley's  next  move  was  to  lift  the  left  front 
foot  of  Moore's  horse  and  expose  the  bottom  to  view. 
Evidently  the  white  mustang  did  not  like  these  proceed 
ings,  but  he  behaved  himself.  The  iron  shoe  on  this  hoof 
was  somewhat  triangular  in  shape.  When  Burley  held 
the  larger  piece  of  mud,  with  its  imprint,  close  to  the  hoof, 
it  was  not  possible  to  believe  that  this  iron  shoe  had  not 
made  the  triangular-shaped  track. 

Burley  let  go  of  the  hoof  and  laid  the  pieces  of  mud 
down.  Slowly  the  other  men  straightened  up.  Some 
one  breathed  hard. 

"Moore,  what  do  them  tracks  look  like  to  you?"  asked 
the  sheriff. 

"They  look  like  mine,"  replied  the  cowboy. 

"They  are  yours." 

41  I'm  not  denying  that." 

;'I  cut  them  pieces  of  mud  from  beside  a  water-hole 
over  hyar  under  Gore  Peak.  We'd  trailed  the  cattle 
Belllounds  lost,  an'  then  we  kept  on  trailin'  them, 
clear  to  the  road  that  goes  over  the  ridge  to  Elgsria, 

277 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

.  .  .  Now  Bridges  an'  Lindsay  hyar  bought  stock  lately 
from  strange  cattlemen  who  didn't  give  no  clear  idee 
of  their  range.  Jest  buyin'  an*  sellin',  they  claimed.  .  .  . 
I  reckon  the  extra  hoss  tracks  we  run  across  at  Gore 
Peak  connects  up  them  buyers  an'  sellers  with  who 
ever  drove  Belllounds's  cattle  up  thar.  .  .  .  Have  you 
anythin'  more  to  say?" 

"No.     Not  here,"  replied  Moore,  quietly. 

"  Then  I'll  have  to  arrest  you  an'  take  you  to  Kremmlin' 
fer  trial." 

"  All  right.    I'll  go." 

The  old  rancher  seemed  genuinely  shocked.  Red 
tinged  his  cheek  and  a  flame  flared  in  his  eyes. 

"Wils,  you  done  me  dirt,"  he  said,  wrathfully.  "An' 
I  always  swore  by  you.  .  .  .  Make  a  clean  breast  of  the 
whole  damn  bizness,  if  you  want  me  to  treat  you  white. 
You  must  have  been  locoed  or  drunk,  to  double-cross  me 
thet  way.  Come  on,  out  with  it." 

"I've  nothing  to  say,"  replied  Moore. 

"You  act  amazin'  strange  fer  a  cowboy  I've  knowed  to 
tean  toward  fightin'  at  the  drop  of  a  hat.  I  tell  you, 
speak  out  an'  I'll  do  right  by  you.  ...  I  ain't  forgettin' 
thet  White  Slides  gave  you  a  hard  knock.  An'  I  was 
young  once  an'  had  hot  blood." 

The  old  rancher's  wrathful  pathos  stirred  the  cowboy 
to  a  straining-point  of  his  unnatural,  almost  haughty  com 
posure.  He  seemed  about  to  break  into  violent  utterance. 
Grief  and  horror  and  anger  seemed  at  the  back  of  his 
trembling  lips.  The  look  he  gave  Belllounds  was  assuiedly 
a  strange  one,  to  come  from  a  cowboy  who  was  supposed 
to  have  stolen  his  former  employer's  cattle.  Whatever  he 
might  have  replied  was  cut  off  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Columbine. 

"  Dad,  I  heard  you !"  she  cried,  as  she  swept  upon  them, 

278 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

fearful  and  wide-eyed.  "What  has  Wilson  Moore  done 
— that  you'll  do  right  by  him?" 

"Collie,  go  back  in  the  house,"  he  ordered. 

"No.  There's  something  wrong  here,"  she  said,  with 
mounting  dread  in  the  swift  glance  she  shot  from  man  to 
man.  "Oh!  You're — Sheriff  Burley!"  she  gasped. 

"I  reckon  I  am,  miss,  an'  if  young  Moore's  a  friend  of 
yours  I'm  sorry  I  came,"  replied  Burley. 

Wade  himself  reacted  subtly  and  thrillingly  to  the 
presence  of  the  girl.  She  was  alive,  keen,  strung,  growing 
white,  with  darkening  eyes  of  blue  fire,  beginning  to  grasp 
intuitively  the  meaning  here. 

"My  friend!  He  was  more  than  that — not  long  ago. 
...  What  has  he  done  ?  Why  are  you  here  ? ' ' 

"Miss,  I'm  arrestin'  him." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  For  what?" 

"Rustlin'  your  father's  cattle." 

For  a  moment  Columbine  was  speechless.  Then  she 
burst  out,  "Oh,  there's  a  terrible  mistake!" 

"Miss  Columbine,  I  shore  hope  so,"  replied  Burley, 
much  embarrassed  and  distressed.  Like  most  men  of  his 
kind,  he  could  not  bear  to  hurt  a  woman.  "But  it  looks 
bad  fer  Moore.  .  .  .  See  hyar!  There!  Look  at  the 
tracks  of  his  hoss — left  front  foot — shoe  all  crooked. 
Thet's  his  hoss's.  He  acknowledges  thet.  An',  see  hyar. 
Look  at  the  little  circles  an'  dots.  ...  I  found  these  'way 
over  at  Gore  Peak,  with  the  tracks  of  the  stolen  cattle. 
An*  no  other  tracks,  Miss  Columbine!" 

"Who  put  you  on  that  trail?"  she  asked,  piercingly. 

"Jack,  hyar.  He  found  it  fust,  an'  rode  to  Kremmlin' 
fer  me." 

"Jack!  Jack  Belllounds!"  she  cried,  bursting  into  wild 
and  furious  laughter.  Like  a  tigress  she  leaped  at  Jack 
as  if  to  tear  him  to  pieces.  "You  put  the  sheriff  on 

279 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

that  trail!    You  accuse  Wilson  Moore  of  stealing  dad's 
cattle!" 

"  Yes,  and  I  proved  it,"  replied  Jack,  hoarsely. 

"You!  You  proved  it?  So  that's  your  revenge?  .  .  . 
But  you're  to  reckon  with  me,  Jack  Belllounds!  You 
villain!  You  devil!  You — "  Suddenly  she  shrank  back 
with  a  strong  shudder.  She  gasped.  Her  face  grew 
ghastly  white.  "  Oh,  my  God!  . . .  horrible — unspeakable ! " 
. . .  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  every  muscle 
of  her  seemed  to  contract  until  she  was  stiff.  Then  her 
hands  shot  out  to  Moore. 

"Wilson  Moore,  what  have  you  to  say — to  this  sheriff 
— to  Jack  Belllounds — to  me?' ' 

Moore  bent  upon  her  a  gaze  that  must  have  pierced  her 
soul,  so  like  it  was  to  a  lightning  flash  of  love  and  meaning 
and  eloquence. 

"Collie,  they've  got  the  proof.  I'll  take  my  medicine. 
.  .  .  Your  dad  is  good.  He'll  be  easy  on  me!' 

"You  lie!"  she  whispered.  "And  I  will  tell  why  you 
lie!" 

Moore  did  not  show  the  shame  and  guilt  that  should 
have  been  natural  with  his  confession.  But  he  showed  an 
agony  of  distress.  His  hand  sought  Wade  and  dragged 
at  him 

It  did  not  need  this  mute  appeal  to  tell  Wade  that  in 
another  moment  Columbine  would  have  flung  the  shame 
ful  truth  into  the  face  of  Jack  Belllounds.  She  was  rising 
to  that.  She  was  terrible  and  beautiful  to  see. 

"Collie,"  said  Wade,  with  that  voice  he  knew  had 
'  strange  power  over  her,  with  a  clasp  of  her  outflung  hand, 
"no  more!  This  is  a  man's  game.  It's  not  for  a  woman 
to  judge.  Not  here!  It's  Wils's  game — an'  it's  mine. 
I'm  his  friend.  Whatever  his  trouble  or  guilt,  I  take  it 
on  my  shoulders.  An'  it  will  be  as  if  it  were  not!" 

280 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Moaning  and  wringing  her  hands,  Columbine  staggered 
with  the  burden  of  the  struggle  in  her. 

" I'm  quite — quite  mad — or  dreaming.  Oh,  Ben!"  she 
cried. 

"Brace  up,  Collie.  It's  sure  hard.  Wils,  your  friend 
and  playmate  so  many  years — it's  hard  to  believe!  We 
all  understand,  Collie.  Now  you  go  in,  an*  don't  listen 
to  any  more  or  look  any  more." 

He  led  her  down  the  porch  to  the  door  of  her  room,  and 
as  he  pushed  it  open  he  whispered,  "I  will  save  you, 
Collie,  an'  Wils,  an'  the  old  man  you  call  dad!" 

Then  he  returned  to  the  silent  group  in  the  yard. 

"Jim,  if  I  answer  fer  Wils  Moore  bein'  in  Kremmlin' 
the  day  you  say,  will  you  leave  him  with  me?" 

"Wai,  I  shore  will,  Wade,"  replied  Burley,  heartily. 

"I  object  to  that,"  interposed  Jack  Belllounds, 
stridently.  "He  confessed.  He's  got  to  go  to  jail." 

"Wai,  my  hot-tempered  young  fellar,  thar  ain't  any 
jail  nearer 'n  Denver.  Did  you  know  that?"  returned 
Burley,  with  his  dry,  grim  humor.  "Moore's  under 
arrest.  An'  he'll  be  as  well  off  hyar  with  Wade  as  with 
me  in  Kremmlin',  an'  a  damn  sight  happier." 

The  cowboy  had  mounted,  and  Wade  walked  beside 
him  as  he  started  homeward.  They  had  not  progressed 
far  when  Wade's  keen  ears  caught  the  words,  "Say,  Bell 
lounds,  I  got  it  figgered  thet  you  an'  your  son  don't  savvy 
this  fellar  Wade." 

"Wai,  I  reckon  not,"  replied  the  old  rancher. 

And  his  son  let  cut  a  peal  of  laughter,  bitter  and  scorn' 
ful  and  unsatisfied. 
19 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PEAK  was  the  highest  point  of  the  black 
range  that  extended  for  miles  westward  from  Buf 
falo  Park.  It  was  a  rounded  dome,  covered  with  timber 
and  visible  as  a  landmark  from  the  surrounding  country. 
All  along  the  eastern  slope  of  that  range  an  unbroken 
forest  of  spruce  and  pine  spread  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
valley.  This  valley  narrowed  toward  its  source,  which 
was  Buffalo  Park.  A  few  well-beaten  trails  crossed  that 
country,  one  following  Red  Brook  down  to  Kremmling; 
another  crossing  from  the  Park  to  White  Slides;  and 
another  going  over  the  divide  down  to  Elgeria.  The  only 
well-known  trail  leading  to  Gore  Peak  was  a  branch-off 
from  the  valley,  and  it  went  round  to  the  south  and  more 
accessible  side  of  the  mountain. 

All  that  immense  slope  of  timbered  ridges,  benches, 
ravines,  and  swales  west  of  Buffalo  Park  was  exceedingly 
wild  and  rough  country.  Here  the  buffalo  took  to  cover 
from  hunters,  and  were  safe  until  they  ventured  forth 
into  the  parks  again.  Elk  and  deer  and  bear  made  this 
forest  their  home. 

Bent  Wade,  hunter  now  for  bigger  game  than  wild 
beasts  of  the  range,  left  his  horse  at  Lewis's  cabin  and 
penetrated  the  dense  forest  alone,  like  a  deer-stalker  or 
an  Indian  in  his  movements.  Lewis  had  acted  as  scout 
for  Wade,  and  had  ridden  furiously  down  to  Sage  Valley 
with  news  of  the  rustlers.  Wade  had  accompanied  him 
back  to  Buffalo  Park  that  night,  riding  in  the  dark, 

282 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

There  were  urgent  reasons  for  speed.    Jack  Belllound 
had  ridden  to  Kremmling,  and  the  hunter  did  not  believe 
he  would  return  by  the  road  he  had  taken. 

Fox,  Wade's  favorite  dog,  much  to  his  disgust,  was  left 
behind  with  Lewis.  The  bloodhound,  Kane,  accompanied 
Wade.  Kane  had  been  ill-treated  and  then  beaten  by 
Jack  Belllounds,  and  he  had  left  White  Slides  to  take  up 
his  home  at  Moore's  cabin.  And  at  last  he  had  seemed 
to  reconcile  himself  to  the  hunter,  not  with  love,  but  with 
out  distrust.  Kane  never  forgave;  but  he  recognized  his 
friend  and  master.  Wade  carried  his  rifle  and  a  buckskin 
pouch  containing  meat  and  bread.  His  belt,  heavily 
studded  with  sheho,  contained  two  guns,  both  now  worn 
in  plain  sight,  with  the  one  on  the  right  side  hanging  low< 
Wade's  character  seemed  to  have  undergone  some  remark 
able  change,  yet  what  he  represented  then  was  not 
unfamiliar. 

He  headed  for  the  concealed  cabin  on  the  edge  of  the 
nigh  valley,  under  the  black  brow  of  Gore  Peak.  It  was 
early  morning  of  a  July  day,  with  summer  fresh  and  new 
to  the  forest.  Along  the  park  edges  the  birds  and  squirrels 
were  holding  carnival.  The  grass  was  crisp  and  bedia- 
monded  with  sparkling  frost.  Tracks  of  game  showed 
sharp  in  the  white  patches.  Wade  paused  once,  listening. 
Ah !  That  most  beautiful  of  forest  melodies  for  him — the 
bugle  of  an  elk.  Clear,  resonant,  penetrating,  with  these 
qualities  held  and  blended  by  a  note  of  wildness,  it  rang 
thrillingly  through  all  Wade's  being.  The  hound  listened, 
but  was  not  interested.  He  kept  close  beside  the  hunter 
or  at  his  heels,  a  stealthily  stepping,  warily  glancing 
hound,  not  scenting  the  four-footed  denizens  of  the  forest 
He  expected  his  master  to  put  him  on  the  trail  of  men. 

The  distance  from  the  Park  to  Gore  Peak,  as  a  crow 
would  have  flown,  was  not  great.  But  Wade  progressed 

283 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

slowly;  he  kept  to  the  dense  parts  of  the  forest;  he 
avoided  the  open  aisles,  the  swales,  the  glades,  the  high 
ridges,  the  rocky  ground.  When  he  came  to  the  Elgeria 
trail  he  was  not  disappointed  to  find  it  smooth,  untrodden 
by  any  recent  travel.  Half  a  mile  farther  on  through  the 
forest,  however,  he  encountered  tracks  of  three  horses, 
made  early  the  day  before.  Still  farther  on  he  found 
cattle  and  horse  tracks,  now  growing  old  and  dim.  These 
tracks,  pointed  toward  Elgeria,  were  like  words  of  a 
printed  page  to  Wade. 

About  noon  he  climbed  a  rocky  eminence  that  jutted 
out  from  a  slow-descending  ridge,  and  from  this  vantage- 
point  he  saw  down  the  wavering  black  and  green  bosom 
of  the  mountain  slope.  A  narrow  valley,  almost  hidden, 
gleamed  yellow  in  the  sunlight.  At  the  edge  of  this 
valley  a  faint  coluinn  of  blue  smoke  curled  upward. 

"Ahuh!"  muttered  the  hunter,  as  he  looked.  The 
hound  whined  arid  pushed  a  cool  nose  into  Wade's  hand. 

Then  Wade  resumed  his  noiseless  and  stealthy  course 
through  the  woods.  He  began  a  descent,  leading  off  some 
what  to  the  right  of  the  point  where  the  smoke  had  arisen. 
The  presence  of  the  rustlers  in  the  cabin  was  of  impor 
tance,  yet  not  so  paramount  as  another  possibility.  He 
expected  Jack  Belllounds  to  be  with  them  or  meet  them 
there,  and  that  was  the  thing  he  wanted  to  ascertain. 
When  he  got  down  below  the  little  valley  he  swung  around 
to  the  left  to  cross  the  trail  that  came  up  from  the  main 
valley,  some  miles  still  farther  down.  He  found  it,  and 
was  not  surprised  to  see  fresh  horse  tracks,  made  that 
morning.  He  recognized  those  tracks.  Jack  Belllounds 
was  with  the  rustlers,  come,  no  doubt,  to  receive  his  pay. 

Then  the  change  in  Wade,  and  the  actions  of  a  trailer 
of  men,  became  more  singularly  manifest.  He  reverted 
to  some  former  habit  of  mind  and  body.  He  was  as  slow 

284 


THS  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

$s  a  shadow,  absolutely  silent,  and  the  gaze  that  roved 
ahead  and  all  around  must  have  taken  note  of  every  living 
thing,  of  every  moving  leaf  or  fern  or  bough.  The  hound, 
with  hair  curling  up  stiff  on  his  back,  stayed  close  to 
Wade,  watching,  listening,  and  stepping  with  him.  Cer 
tainly  Wade  expected  the  rustlers  to  have  some  one  of 
their  number  doing  duty  as  an  outlook.  So  he  kept  up 
hill,  above  the  cabin,  and  made  his  careful  way  through 
the  thicket  coverts,  which  at  that  place  were  dense  and 
matted  clumps  of  jack-pine  and  spruce.  At  last  he  could 
see  the  cabin  and  the  narrow,  grassy  valley  just  beyond. 
To  his  relief  the  horses  were  unsaddled  and  grazing.  No 
man  was  in  sight.  But  there  might  be  a  dog.  The  hunt 
er,  in  his  slow  advance,  used  keen  and  unrelaxing  vigi 
lance,  and  at  length  he  decided  that  if  there  had  been  a 
dog  he  would  have  been  tied  outside  to  give  an  alarm. 

Wade  had  now  reached  his  objective  point.  He  was 
some  eighty  paces  from  the  cabin,  in  line  with  an  open 
aisle  down  which  he  could  see  into  the  cleared  space  before 
the  door.  On  his  left  were  thick,  small  spruces,  with  low- 
spreading  branches,  and  they  extended  all  the  way  to  the 
cabin  on  that  side,  and  in  fact  screened  two  walls  of  it. 
Wade  knew  exactly  what  he  was  going  to  do.  No  longer 
did  he  hesitate.  Laying  down  his  rifle,  he  tied  the  hound 
to  a  little  spruce,  patting  him  and  whispering  for  him  to 
stay  there  and  be  still. 

Then  Wade's  action  in  looking  to  his  belt-guns  was  that 
of  a  man  who  expected  to  have  recourse  to  them  speedily 
and  by  whom  the  necessity  was  neither  regretted  nor 
feared.  Stooping  low,  he  entered  the  thicket  of  spruces. 
The  soft,  spruce-matted  ground,  devoid  of  brush  or  twig, 
did  not  give  forth  the  slightest  sound  of  step,  nor  did  the 
brushing  of  the  branches  against  his  body.  In  some 
cases  he  had  to  bend  the  boughs.  Thus,  swiftly  and 

285 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

silently,  with  the  gliding  steps  of  an  Indian,  he  approached 
the  cabin  till  the  brown-barked  logs  loomed  before  him, 
shutting  off  the  clearer  light. 

He  smelled  a  mingling  of  wood  and  tobacco  smoke;  he 
heard  low,  deep  voices  of  men;  the  shuffling  and  patting 
of  cards;  the  musical  click  of  gold.  Resting  on  his  knees 
a  moment  the  hunter  deliberated.  All  was  exactly  as  he 
had  expected.  Luck  favored  him.  These  gamblers  would 
be  absorbed  in  their  game.  The  door  of  the  cabin  was 
just  around  the  corner,  and  he  could  glide  noiselessly  to 
it  or  gain  it  in  a  few  leaps.  Either  method  would  serve. 
But  which  he  must  try  depended  upon  the  position  of  the 
men  inside  and  that  of  their  weapons. 

Rising  silently,  Wade  stepped  up  to  the  wall  and 
peeped  through  a  chink  between  the  logs.  The  sunshine 
streamed  through  windows  and  door.  Jack  Belllounds 
sat  on  the  ground,  full  in  its  light,  back  to  the  wall.  He 
was  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  The  gambling  fever  and  the 
grievous  soreness  of  a  loser  shone  upon  his  pale  face. 
Smith  sat  with  back  to  Wade,  opposite  Belllounds.  The 
other  men  completed  the  square.  All  were  close  enough 
together  to  reach  comfortably  for  the  cards  and  gold 
before  them.  Wade's  keen  eyes  took  this  in  at  a  single 
glance,  and  then  steadied  searchingly  for  smaller  features 
of  the  scene.  Belllounds  had  no  weapon.  Smith's  belt 
and  gun  lay  in  the  sunlight  on  the  hard,  clay  floor,  out  of 
reach  except  by  violent  effort.  The  other  two  rustlers 
both  wore  their  weapons.  Wade  gave  a  long  scrutiny  to 
the  faces  of  these  comrades  of  Smith,  and  evidently  sat 
isfied  himself  as  to  what  he  had  to  expect  from  them. 

Wade  hesitated;  then  stooping  low,  he  softly  swept 
aside  the  intervening  boughs  of  spruce,  glided  out  of  the 
thicket  into  the  open.  Two  noiseless  bounds!  Another,1 
and  he  was  inside  the  door! 

286 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Howdy,  rustlers!    Don't  move!"  he  called. 

The  surprise  of  his  appearance,  or  his  voice,  or  both, 
stunned  the  four  men.  Belllounds  dropped  his  cards,  and 
his  jaw  dropped  at  the  same  instant.  These  were  abscK 
lutely  the  only  visible  movements. 

"I'm  in  talkin'  humor,  an'  the  longer  you  listen  the 
longer  you'll  have  to  live,"  said  Wade.  "But  don't 
move!" 

"We  ain't  movin',"  burst  out  Smith.  "Who  're  you, 
an'  what  d'ye  want?" 

It  was  singular  that  the  rustler  leader  had  not  had  a 
look  at  Wade,  whose  movements  had  been  swift  and 
who  now  stood  directly  behind  him.  Also  it  was  obvious 
that  Smith  was  sitting  very  stiff-necked  and  straight. 
Not  improbably  he  had  encountered  such  situations  before. 

"Who  're  you?"  he  shouted,  hoarsely. 

"You  ought  to  know  me."  The  voice  was  Wade's, 
gentle,  cold,  with  depth  and  ring  in  it. 

"  I've  heerd  your  voice  somewhars — I'll  gamble  on  thet." 

"Sure.  You  ought  to  recognize  my  voice,  Cap,"  re 
turned  Wade. 

The  rustler  gave  a  violent  start — a  start  that  he  con 
trolled  instantly. 

"Cap!     You  callin'  me  thet?" 

"  Sure.     We're  old  friends— Cap  Folsom!  " 

In  the  silence,  then,  the  rustler's  hard  breathing  could 
be  heard;  his  neck  bulged  red;  only  the  eyes  of  his  two 
comrades  moved;  Belllounds  began  to  recover  somewhat 
from  his  consternation.  Fear  had  clamped  him  also,  but 
not  fear  of  personal  harm  or  peril.  His  mind  had  not  yet 
awakened  to  that. 

"You've  got  me  pat!  But  who  're  you?"  said  Folsom, 
huskily. 

Wade  kept  silent. 

287 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Who  'n  hell  is  thet  man?"  yelled  the  rustlet  It  was 
not  a  query  to  his  comrades  any  more  than  to  the  four 
winds.  It  was  a  furious  questioning  of  ^  memory  that 
stirred  and  haunted,  and  as  well  a  passionate  and  fearful 
denial. 

"  His  name's  Wade,"  put  in  Belllounds,  harshly.  "  He's 
the  friend  of  Wils  Moore.  He's  the  hunter  I  told  you 
about — worked  for  my  father  last  winter." 

"Wade?  .  .  .  What?  Wade!  You  never  told  me  his 
name.  It  ain't — it  ain't — " 

"  Yes,  it  is,  Cap,"  interrupted  Wade.  " It's  the  old  boy 
that  spoiled  your  handsome  mug — long  ago." 

"Hell-Bent  Wade!"  gasped  Folsom,  in  terrible  accents. 
He  shook  all  over.  An  ashen  paleness  crept  into  his  face. 
Instinctively  his  right  hand  jerked  toward  his  gun;  then, 
as  in  his  former  motion,  froze  in  the  very  act. 

"Careful,  Cap!"  warned  Wade.  "It'd  be  a  shame 
not  to  hear  me  talk  a  little.  .  .  .  Turn  around  now  an* 
greet  an  old  pard  of  the  Gunnison  days." 

Folsom  turned  as  if  a  resistless,  heavy  force  was  revolv 
ing  his  head. 

"By  Gawd!  .  .  .  Wade!"  he  ejaculated.  The  tone  of 
his  voice,  the  light  in  his  eyes,  must  have  been  a  spiritual 
acceptance  of  a  dreadful  and  irrefutable  fact — perhaps  the 
proximity  of  death.  But  he  was  no  coward.  Despite  the 
hunter's  order,  given  as  he  stood  there,  gun  drawn  and 
ready,  Folsom  wheeled  back  again,  savagely  to  throw  the 
deck  of  cards  in  Belllounds's  face.  He  cursed  horribly. 
.  .  .  "You  spoiled  brat  of  a  rich  rancher!  Why  'n  hell 
didn't  you  tell  me  thet  varmint-hunter  was  Wade." 

"I  did  tell  you,"  shouted  Belllounds,  flaming  of  face. 

"You're  a  liar!  You  never  said  Wade — W-a-d-e,  right 
out,  so  I'd  hear  it.  An'  I'd  never  passed  by  Hell-Bent 
Wade." 

288 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

61  Aw,  that  name  made  me  tired,"  replied  Belllounds, 
contemptuously. 

"Haw!  Haw!  Haw!"  bawled  the  rustler.  "Made  you 
tired,  hey?  Think  you're  funny?  Wai,  if  you  knowed 
how  many  men  thet  name's  made  tired — an'  tired  fer  keeps 
— you'd  not  think  it  so  damn  funny." 

"Say,  what  're  you  giving  me?  That  Sheriff  Burley 
tried  to  tell  me  and  dad  a  lot  of  rot  about  this  Wade. 
Why,  he's  only  a  little,  bow-legged,  big-nosed  meddler — 
a  man  with  a  woman's  voice — a  sneaking  cook  and  camp- 
doctor  and  cow-milker,  and  God  only  knows  what  else." 

"Boy,  you're  correct.  God  only  knows  what  else!  .  .  . 
It's  the  else  you've  got  to  learn.  An'  I'll  gamble  you'll 
learn  it.  ...  Wade,  have  you  changed  or  grown  old  thet 
you  let  a  pup  like  this  yap  such  talk?" 

"Well,  Cap,  he's  very  amusin'  just  now,  an'  I  want 
you-all  to  enjoy  him.  Because,  if  you  don't  force  my 
hand  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  some  interest  in'  stuff  about 
this  Buster  Jack.  .  .  .  Now,  will  you  be  quiet  an'  listen — 
an*  answer  for  your  pards?" 

"Wade,  I  answer  fer  no  man.  But,  so  far  as  I've 
noticed,  my  pards  ain't  hankerin'  to  make  any  loud 
noise,"  Folsom  replied,  indicating  his  comrades,  with 
sarcasm. 

The  red-bearded  one,  a  man  of  large  frame  and  gaunt 
face,  wicked  and  wild-looking,  spoke  out,  "Say,  Smith, 
or  whatever  the  hell's  yore  right  handle — is  this  hyar  a 
game  we're  playin'?" 

"I  reckon.  An*  if  you  turn  a  trick  you'll  be  damn 
lucky,"  growled  Polsom. 

The  other  rustler  did  not  speak.  He  was  small,  swarthy- 
faced,  with  sloe-black  eyes  and  matted  hair,  evidently  a 
white  man  with  Mexican  blood.  Keen,  strung,  furtive, 
he  kept  motionless,  awaiting  events. 

289 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Buster  Jack,  these  new  pards  of  yours  are  low-down 
rustlers,  an'  one  of  them's  worse,  as  I  could  prove,"  said 
Wade,  "but  compared  with  you  they're  all  gentlemen." 

Belllounds  leered.  But  he  was  losing  his  bravado. 
Something  began  to  dawn  upon  his  obtuse  consciousness. 

"What  do  I  care  for  you  or  your  gabby  talk?"  he 
flashed,  sullenly. 

"You'll  care  when  I  tell  these  rustlers  how  you  double- 
crossed  them." 

Belllounds  made  a  spring,  like  that  of  a  wolf  in  a  trap; 
but  when  half-way  up  he  slipped.  The  rustler  on  his 
r'ght  kicked  him,  and  he  sprawled  down  again,  back  to  the 
wall. 

"Buster,  look  into  this!"  called  Wade,  and  he  leveled 
the  gun  that  quivered  momentarily,  like  a  compass  needle, 
and  then  crashed  fire  and  smoke.  The  bullet  spat  into  a 
log.  But  it  had  cut  the  lobe  of  Belllounds's  ear,  bringing 
blood.  His  face  turned  a  ghastly,  livid  hue.  All  in  a 
second  terror  possessed  him — shuddering,  primitive  terror 
of  death. 

Folsom  haw-hawed  derisively  and  in  crude  delight. 
41  Say,  Buster  Jack,  don't  get  any  idee  thet  my  ole  pard 
Wade  was  shootin'  at  your  head.  Aw,  no!" 

The  other  rustlers  understood  then,  if  Belllounds  had 
not,  that  the  situation  was  in  control  of  a  man  not  in  any 
sense  ordinary. 

"Cap,  did  you  know  Buster  Jack  accused  my  friend, 
Wils  Moore,  of  stealin'  these  cattle  you're  sellin'?"  asked 
Wade,  deliberately. 

"What  cattle  did  you  say?"  asked  the  rustler,  as  if  he 
bad  not  heard  aright. 

"The  cattle  Buster  Jack  stole  from  his  father  an'  sold 
to  you." 

"Wai,  now!  Bent  Wade  at  his  old  tricks!  I  might 

290 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

have  knowed  it,  once  I  seen  you.  .  .  .  Naw,  I'd  no  idee 
Belllounds  blamed  thet  stealin'  on  to  any  one." 

"He  did." 

"  Ahuh !    W*l,  who's  this  Wils  Moore  ? " 

"He's  a  cowboy,  as  fine  a  youngster  as  ever  straddled 
a  horse.  Buster  Jack  hates  him.  He  licked  Jack  a  couple 
of  times  an'  won  the  love  of  a  girl  that  Jack  wants." 

"Ho!  Ho!  Quite  romantic,  I  declare.  .  .  .  Say,  that's 
some  damn  queer  notions  I'm  gettin'  about  you,  Buster 
Jack." 

Belllounds  lay  propped  against  the  wall,  sagging  there, 
laboring  of  chest,  sweating  of  face.  The  boldness  of  brow 
held,  because  it  was  fixed,  but  that  of  his  eyes  had  gone; 
and  his  mouth  and  chin  showed  craven  weakness.  He 
stared  in  dread  suspense  at  Wade. 

"Listen.  An'  all  of  you  sit  tight,"  went  on  Wade, 
swiftly.  "Jack  stole  the  cattle  from  his  father.  He's  a 
thief  at  heart.  But  he  had  a  double  motive.  He  left  a 
trail — he  left  tracks  behind.  He  made  a  crooked  horse 
shoe,  like  that  Wils  Moore's  horse  wears,  an'  he  put  that 
on  his  own  horse.  An'  he  made  a  contrapticr — a  little 
iron  ring  with  a  dot  in  it,  an'  he  left  the  crooked  shoe 
tracks,  an'  he  left  the  little  ring  tracks — " 

"By  Gawd!  I  seen  them  funny  tracks!"  ejaculated 
Folsom.  "At  the  water-hole  an*  right  hyar  in  front  of 
the  cabin.  I  seen  them.  I  knowed  Jack  made  them, 
somehow,  but  I  didn't  think.  His  white  hoss  has  a 
crooked  left  front  shoe." 

"Yes,  he  has,  when  Jack  takes  off  the  regular  shoe  an" 
nails  on  the  crooked  one.  .  .  .  Men,  I  followed  those  tracks. 
They  lead  up  here  to  your  cabin,  Belllounds  made  them 
with  a  purpose.  .  .  .  An'  he  went  to  Kremmlin*  to  get 
Sheriff  Burley.  An'  he  put  him  wise  to  the  rustlin*  of 
cattle  to  Elgeria,  An*  he  fetched  him  up  to  White  Slides 

291 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

to  accuse  Wils  Moore.  An'  he  trailed  his  own  tracks  up 
here,  showin'  Burley  the  crooked  horse  track  an'  the  little 
circle — that  was  supposed  to  be  made  by  the  end  of 
Moore's  crutch — an'  he  led  Burley  with  his  men  right  to 
this  cabin  an'  to  the  trail  where  you  drove  the  cattle  over 
the  divide.  .  .  .  An'  then  he  had  Burley  dig  out  some  cakes 
of  mud  holdin'  these  tracks,  an'  they  fetched  them  down 
to  White  Slides.  Buster  Jack  blamed  the  stealin'  on  to 
Moore.  An'  Burley  arrested  Moore.  The  trial  comes  off 
next  week  at  Krernmlin'." 

"Damn  me!"  exclaimed  Folsom,  wonderingly.  "A 
man's  never  too  old  to  learn!  I  knowed  this  pup  was 
stealin'  from  his  own  father,  but  I  reckoned  he  was  jest 
a  natural-born,  honest  rustler,  with  a  hunch  fer  drink  an* 
cards." 

"Well,  he's  double-crossed  you,  Cap.  An'  if  I  hadn't 
rounded  you  up  your  chances  would  have  been  good  for 
swingin'." 

"Ahuh!  Wade,  I'd  sure  preferred  them  chances  of 
swin^  in'  to  your  over-kind  interferin'  in  my  bizness.  Allus 
interfering  Wade,  thet's  your  weakness! .  . .  But  gimme  a 
gun!" 

"I  reckon  not,  Cap.'9 

' '  Gimme  a  gun ! ' '  roared  the  rustler.    "  Lemme  sit  hyar 

an'  shoot  the  eyes  outen  this — lyin'  pup  of  a  Belllounds! 

. .  .  Wade,  put  a  gun  in  my  hand — a  gun  with  two  shells 

MDr  only  one.     You  can  stand  with  your  gun  at  my  head. 

.  .  Let  me  kill  this  skunk!" 

For  all  Belllounds  could  tell,  death  was  indeed  close. 
/•To  trace  of  a  Belllounds  was  apparent  about  him  then, 
And  his  face  was  a  horrid  spectacle  for  a  man  to  be  forced 
to  see.  A  froth  foamed  over  his  hanging  lower  lip. 

"Cap,  I  ain't  trustin'  you  with  a  gun  just  this  partial* 
%r  minute/'  said  Wade, 

292 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

Folsom  then  bawled  his  curses  to  his  comrades. 

" !  Kill  him !  Throw  your  guns  an'  bore  him — • 

right  in  them  bulgin'  eyes!  .  .  .  I'm  tellin'  you — we've 
gotta  fight,  anyhow.  We're  agoin'  to  cash  right  hyar. 
But  kill  him  first!" 

Neither  of  Folsom's  lieutenants  yielded  to  the  fierce 
exhortation  of  their  leader  or  to  their  own  evilly  expressed 
passions.  It  was  Wade  who  dominated  them.  Then  en 
sued  a  silence  fraught  with  suspense,  growing  more 
charged  every  long  instant.  The  balance  here  seemed 
about  to  be  struck. 

"Wade,  I've  been  a  gambler  all  my  life,  an'  a  damn 
smart  one,  if  I  do  say  it  myself,"  declared  the  rustler 
leader,  his  voice  inharmonious  with  the  facetiousness  of 
his  words.  "An'  I'll  make  a  last  bet." 

"Go  ahead,  Cap.  What '11  you  bet?"  answered  the 
cold  voice,  still  gentle,  but  different  now  in  its 
inflection. 

"By  Gawd!  I'll  bet  all  the  gold  hyar  that  Hell-Bent 
Wade  wouldn't  shoot  any  man  in  the  back!" 

"You  win!" 

Slowly  and  stiffly  the  rustler  rose  to  his  feet.  When  he 
reached  his  height  he  deliberately  swung  his  leg  to  kick 
Belllounds  in  the  face. 

"Thar!  I'd  like  to  have  a  reckonin'  with  you,  Buster 
Jack,"  he  said.  "I  ain't  dealin'  the  cards  hyar.  But 
somethin'  tells  me  thet,  shaky  as  I  am  in  my  boots,  I'd 
liefer  be  in  mine  than  yours." 

With  that,  and  expelling  a  heavy  breath,  he  wrestled 
around  to  confront  the  hunter. 

"Wade.  I've  no  hunch  to  your  game,  but  it's  slower  'n 
I  recollect  you." 

"Why,  Cap,  I  was  in  a  talkin'  humor,"  replied  Wade, 

"Hell!    You're  up  to  some  dodge.    What  'd  you  cars 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

fer  my  learnin'  thet  pup  had  double-crossed  me?  You 
won't  let  me  kill  him." 

41  I  reckon  I  wanted  him  to  learn  what  real  men  thought 
of  him." 

"Ahuh!  Wai,  an*  now  I've  enlightened  him,  what's 
the  next  deal?" 

"You'll  all  go  to  Kremmlin*  with  me  an'  I'll  turn  you 
over  to  Sheriff  Burley." 

That  was  the  gauntlet  thrown  down  by  Wade.  It  was 
not  unexpected,  and  acceptance  seemed  a  relief.  Folsom's 
eyeballs  became  living  fire  with  the  desperate  gleam  of  the 
reckless  chances  of  life.  Cutthroat  he  might  have  been, 
but  he  was  brave,  and  he  proved  the  significance  of  Wade's 
attitude. 

"Pards,  hyar's  to  luck!"  he  rang  out,  hoarsely,  and 
with  pantherish  quickness  he  leaped  for  his  gun. 

A  tense,  surcharged  instant — then  all  four  men,  as  if 
released  by  some  galvanized  current  of  rapidity,  flashed 
into  action.  Guns  boomed  in  unison.  Spurts  of  red, 
clouds  of  smoke,  ringing  reports,  and  hoarse  cries  filled 
the  cabin.  Wade  had  fired  as  he  leaped.  There  was  a 
thudding  patter  of  lead  upon  the  walls.  The  hunter 
flung  himself  prostrate  behind  the  bough  framework  that 
had  served  as  bedstead.  It  was  made  of  spruce  boughs, 
thick  and  substantial.  Wade  had  not  calculated  falsely 
in  estimating  it  as  a  bulwark  of  defense.  Pulling  his 
second  gun,  he  peeped  from  behind  the  covert. 

Smoke  was  lifting,  and  drifting  out  of  door  and  win 
dows.  The  atmosphere  cleared.  Belllounds  sagged 
against  the  wall,  pallid,  with  protruding  eyes  of  horror 
on  the  scene  before  him.  The  dark-skinned  little  man  lay 
writhing.  All  at  once  a  tremor  stilled  his  convulsions. 
His  body  relaxed  limply.  As  if  by  magic  his  hand  loosened 
on  the  smoking  gun.  Folsom  was  on  his  knees,  reeling 

294 


MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  swaying,  waving  his  gun,  peering  like  a  drunken  man 
for  some  lost  object.  His  temple  appeared  half  shot 
away,  a  bloody  and  horrible  sight. 

"Pards,  I  got  him!"  he  said,  in  strange,  half-strangled 
whisper.  "  I  got  him ! . . .  Hell-Bent  Wade!  My  respects! 
I'll  meet  you— thar!" 

His  reeling  motion  brought  his  gaze  in  line  with  Bell- 
lounds.  The  violence  of  his  start  sent  drops  of  blood 
flying  from  his  gory  temple. 

"Ahuh!  The  cards  run — my  way.  Belllounds,  hyar's 
to  your — lyin'  eyes!" 

The  gun  wavered  and  trembled  and  circled.  Folsom 
strained  in  last  terrible  effort  of  will  to  aim  it  straight. 
He  fired.  The  bullet  tore  hair  from  Belllounds's  head, 
but  missed  him.  Again  the  rustler  aimed,  and  the  gun 
wavered  and  shook.  He  pulled  trigger.  The  hammer 
clicked  upon  an  empty  chamber.  With  low  and  gurgling 
cry  of  baffled  rage  Folsom  dropped  the  gun  and  sank  face 
forward,  slowly  stretching  out. 

The  red-bearded  rustler  had  leaped  behind  the  stone 
chimney  that  all  but  hid  his  body.  The  position  made  it 
difficult  for  him  to  shoot  because  his  gun-hand  was  on  the 
inside,  and  he  had  to  press  his  body  tight  to  squeeze  it 
behind  the  corner  of  ragged  stone.  Wade  had  the  advan 
tage.  He  was  lying  prone  with  his  right  hand  round  the 
corner  of  the  framework.  An  overhang  of  the  bough- 
ends  above  protected  his  head  when  he  peeped  out. 
While  he  watched  for  a  chance  to  shoot  he  loaded  his 
empty  gun  with  his  left  hand.  The  rustler  strained  and 
writhed  his  body,  twisting  his  neck,  and  suddenly  darting 
out  his  head  and  arm,  he  shot.  His  bullet  tore  the  over 
hang  of  boughs  above  Wade's  face.  And  Wade's  answer 
ing  shot,  just  a  second  too  late,  chipped  the  stone  corner 
where  the  rustler's  face  had  flashed  out.  The  bullet, 

295 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

glancing,  hummed  out  of  the  window.  It  was  a  close 
shave.  The  rustler  let  out  a  hissing,  inarticulate  cry. 
He  was  trapped.  In  his  effort  to  press  in  closer  he  pro 
jected  his  left  elbow  beyond  the  corner  of  the  chimney. 
Wade's  quick  shot  shattered  his  arm. 

There  was  no  asking  or  offering  of  quarter  here.  This 
was  the  old  feud  of  the  West — of  the  vicious  and  the 
righteous  in  strife — both  reared  in  the  same  stern  school. 
The  rustler  gave  his  body  such  contortion  that  he  was 
twisted  almost  clear  around,  with  his  right  hand  over  his 
left  shoulder.  He  punched  the  muzzle  of  his  gu*i  into  a 
crack  between  two  stones,  and  he  pried  tc  open  them. 
The  dry  clay  cement  crumbled,  the  crack  widened.  Sight 
ing  along  the  barrel  he  alined  it  with  the  narrow  strip  of 
Wade's  shoulder  that  was  visible  above  the  framework. 
Then  he  shot  and  hit.  Wade  shrank  flatter  and  closer, 
hiding  himself  to  better  advantage.  The  rustler  made  his 
great  blunder  then,  for  in  that  moment  he  might  have 
rushed  out  and  killed  his  adversary.  But,  instead,  h« 
shot  again — another  time — a  third.  And  his  heavy  bullets 
tore  and  splintered  the  boughs  dangerously  close  to  the 
hunter's  head.  Then  came  an  awkward,  almost  hopeless 
task  for  the  rustler,  in  maintaining  his  position  while  re 
loading  his  gun.  He  did  it,  and  his  panting  attested  to 
the  labor  and  pain  it  cost  him. 

So  much,  in  fact,  that  he  let  his  knee  protrude.  Wade 
fired,  breaking  that  knee.  The  rustler  sagged  in  his 
tracks,  his  hip  stuck  out  to  afford  a  target  for  the  remorse 
less  Wade.  Still  the  doomed  man  did  not  cry  out,  though 
it  was  evident  that  he  could  not  now  keep  his  body  from 
sagging  into  sight  of  the  hunter.  Then  with  a  desperate 
courage  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  and  with  a  spirit  great 
in  its  defeat,  the  rustler  plunged  out  from, his  hiding-place, 
gun  extended.  His  red  beard,  his  gaunt  face,  fierce  and 

296 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

baleful,  his  wabbling  plunge  that  was  really  a  fall,  made 
a  sight  which  was  terrible.  He  hopped  out  of  that  falL 
His  gun  began  to  blaze.  But  it  only  matched  the  blazes 
of  Wade's.  And  the  rustler  pitched  headlong  over  the 
framework,  falling  heavily  against  the  wall  beyond. 

Then  there  was  silence  for  a  long  moment.  Wade 
stirred,  as  if  to  look  around.  Belllounds  also  stirred,  and 
gulped,  as  if  to  breathe.  The  three  prostrate  rustlers 
lay  inert,  their  positions  singularly  tragic  and  set  tied . 
The  smoke  again  began  to  lift,  to  float  out  of  the  door  and 
windows.  In  another  moment  the  big  room  seemed  less 
hazy. 

Wade  rose,  not  without  effort,  and  he  had  a  gun  in 
each  hand.  Those  hands  were  bloody;  there  was  blood 
on  his  face,  and  his  left  shoulder  was  red.  He  approached 
Belllounds. 

Wade  was  terrible  then — terrible  with  a  ruthlessness 
that  was  no  pretense.  To  Belllounds  it  must  have  repre 
sented  death — a  bloody  death  which  he  was  not  prepared 
to  meet. 

"Come  out  of  your  trance,  you  pup  rustler!"  yelled 
Wade. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  kill  me  I"  implored  Belllounds, 
stricken  with  terror, 

"Why  not?  Look  around!  My  busy  day,  Buster!  .  .  . 
An'  for  that  Cap  Folsom  it's  been  ten  years  comin*.  .  .  . 
I'm  goin'  to  shoot  you  in  the  belly  an'  watch  you  get  sick 
to  your  stomach!" 

Belllounds,  with  whisper,  and  hands,  and  face,  begged 
for  his  life  in  an  abjectness  of  sheer  panic. 

"What!"  roared  the  hunter.  "Didn't  you  know  I 
come  to  kill  you?" 

"Yes — yes!  I've  seen — that.  It's  awful!  .  .  .  I  never 
harmed  you,  ,  .  ,  Don't  kill  me!  Let  me  live,  Wade0  I 
20  297 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

swear  to  God  I'll — I'll  never  do  it  again:  .  .  .  For  dad's 
sake — for  Collie's  sake — don't  kill  me!" 

"I'm  Hell-Bent  Wade! .  .  .  You  wouldn't  listen  to  them 
— when  they  wanted  to  tell  you  who  I  am ! " 

Every  word  of  Wade's  drove  home  to  this  boy  the 
primal  meaning  of  sudden  death.  It  inspired  him  with 
an  unutterable  fear.  That  was  what  clamped  his  brow 
in  a  sweaty  band  and  upreared  his  hair  and  rolled  his  eye 
balls.  His  magnified  intelligence,  almost  ghastly,  grasped 
a  hope  in  Wade's  apparent  vacillation  and  in  the  utter 
ance  of  the  name  of  Columbine.  Intuition,  a  subtle  sense, 
inspired  him  to  beg  in  that  name. 

"Swear  you'll  give  up  Collie!"  demanded  Wade,  bran 
dishing  his  guns  with  bloody  hands. 

"Yes— yes!  My  God,  I'll  do  anything!"  moaned 
Belllounds. 

"Swear  you'll  tell  your  father  you'd  had  a  change  of 
heart.  You'll  give  Collie  up! ...  Let  Moore  have  her!" 

"I  swear!  .  .  .  But  if  you  tell  dad — I  stole  his  cattle — 
he'll  do  for  me!" 

"We  won't  squeal  that.  I'll  save  you  if  you  give  up 
the  girl.  Once  more,  Buster  Jack — try  an*  make  me 
believe  you'll  square  the  deal." 

Belllounds  had  lost  his  voice.  But  his  mute,  fluttering 
lips  were  infinite  proof  of  the  vow  he  could  not  speak. 
The  boyishness,  the  stunted  moral  force,  replaced  the 
manhood  in  him  then.  He  was  only  a  factor  in  the  lives 
of  others,  protected  even  from  this  Nemesis  by  the  great 
ness  of  his  father's  love. 

"Get  up,  an'  take  my  scarf,"  said  Wade,  "an1  bandage 
these  bullet-holes  I  got/* 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WADE'S  wounds  were  not  in  any  way  serious,  and 
with  Belllounds's  assistance  he  got  to  the  cabin 
of  Lewis,  where  weakness  from  loss  of  blood  made  it 
necessary  that  he  remain.  Belllounds  went  home. 

The  next  day  Wade  sent  Lewis  with  pack-horse  down 
to  the  rustler's  cabin,  to  bury  the  dead  men  and  fetch 
back  their  effects.  Lewis  returned  that  night,  accom 
panied  by  Sheriff  Burley  and  two  deputies,  who  had  been 
busy  on  their  own  account.  They  had  followed  horse  tracks 
from  the  water-hole  under  Gore  Peak  to  the  scene  of  the 
fight,  and  had  arrived  to  find  Lewis  there.  Burley  had 
appropriated  the  considerable  amount  of  gold,  which  he 
said  could  be  identified  by  cattlemen  who  had  bought 
the  stolen  cattle. 

When  opportunity  afforded  Burley  took  advantage  of 
it  to  speak  to  Wade  when  the  others  were  out  of  ear 
shot. 

"Thar  was  another  man  in  thet  cabin  when  the  fight 
come  off,"  announced  the  sheriff.  "An'  he  come  up  hyar 
with  you." 

"Jim,  you're  locoed,"  replied  Wade. 

The  sheriff  laughed,  and  his  shrewd  eyes  had  a  kindly, 
curious  gleam. 

"Next  you'll  be  givin'  me  a  hunch  thet  you're  in  & 
fever  an'  out  of  your  head." 

"Jim,  I'm  not  as  clear-headed  as  I  might  be." 

"Wai,  tell  me  or  not,  jest  as  you  like.  I  seen  his  tracks 

299 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

— follered  them.    An'  Wade,  old  pard,  I've  reckoned  long 

ago  thar's  a  nigger  in  the  wood-pile." 

"Sure.  An'  you  know  me.  I'd  take  it  friendly  of  you 
to  put  Moore's  trial  off  fer  a  while — till  I'm  able  to  ride 
to  Kremmlin'.  Maybe  then  I  can  tell  you  a  story." 

Burley  threw  up  his  hands  in  genuine  apprehension. 
64 Not  much!  You  ain't  agoin'  to  tell  me  no  story!  .  .  . 
But  I'll  wait  on  you,  an'  welcome.  Reckon  I  owe  you  a 
good  deal  on  this  rustler  round-up.  Wade,  thet  must 
have  been  a  man-sized  fight,  even  fer  you.  I  picked  up 
twenty-six  empty  shells.  An'  the  little  half-breed  had  one 
empty  shell  an'  five  loaded  ones  in  his  gun.  You  must 
have  got  him  quick.  Hey?" 

"Jim,  I'm  observin'  you're  a  heap  more  curious  than 
evei,  an'  you  always  was  an  inquisitive  cuss,"  complained 
Wade.  "I  don't  recollect  what  happened." 

"Wai,  wal,  have  it  your  own  way,"  replied  Burley, 
with  good  nature.  "Now,  Wade,  I'll  pitch  camp  hyar  in 
the  park  to-night,  an'  to-morrer  I'll  ride  down  to  White 
Slides  on  my  way  to  Kremmlin'.  What  're  you  wantin* 
me  to  tellBelllounds?" 

The  hunter  pondered  a  moment. 

"Reckon  it's  just  as  well  that  you  tell  him  somethin'. 
o  .  .  You  can  say  the  rustlers  are  done  for  an'  that  he'll 
get  his  stock  back.  I'd  like  you  to  tell  him  that  the 
rustlers  were  more  to  blame  than  Wils  Moore.  Just  say 
that  an'  nothin'  else  about  Wils.  Don't  mention  about 
your  suspectin'  there  was  another  man  around  when  the 
fight  come  off.  ...  Tell  the  cowboys  that  I'll  be  down  in 
a  few  days.  An'  if  you  happen  to  get  a  chance  for  a  word 
alone  with  Miss  Collie,  just  say  I'm  not  bad  hurt  an' 
that  all  will  be  well." 

"Ahuh!"  Burley  grunted  out  the  familiar  exclama 
tion,,  He  did  not  say  any  more  then,  but  he  gazed 

300 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

thoughtfully  down  upon  the  pale  hunter,  as  if  that  strange 
individual  was  one  infinitely  to  respect,  but  never  to 
comprehend. 

Wade's  wounds  healed  quickly;  nevertheless,  it  was 
more  than  several  days  before  he  felt  spirit  enough  to 
undertake  the  ride.  He  had  to  return  to  White  Slides, 
but  he  was  reluctant  to  do  so.  Memory  of  Jack  Bell- 
lounds  dragged  at  him,  and  when  he  drove  it  away  it 
continually  returned.  This  feeling  was  almost  equiva 
lent  to  an  augmentation  of  his  gloomy  foreboding,  which 
ever  hovered  on  the  fringe  of  his  consciousness.  But  one 
morning  he  started  early,  and,  riding  very  slowly,  with 
many  rests,  he  reached  the  Sage  Valley  cabin  before  sun-1 
set.  Moore  saw  him  coming,  yelled  his  delight  and  con 
cern,  and  almost  lifted  him  off  the  horse.  Wade  was  too 
tired  to  talk  much,  but  he  allowed  himself  to  be  fed  and 
put  to  bed  and  worked  over. 

"Boot's  on  the  other  foot  now,  pard,"  said  Moore,  with 
delight  at  the  prospect  of  returning  service.  "Say,  you're 
all  shot  up !  And  it's  I  who'll  be  nurse ! " 

"Wils,  I'll  be  around  to-morrow,"  replied  the  hunters 
5 'Have  you  heard  any  news  from  down  below?" 

"Sure.     I've  met  Lem  every  night." 

Then  he  related  Burley's  version  of  Wade's  fight  with 
the  rustlers  in  the  cabin.  From  the  sheriff's  lips  the  story 
gained  much.  Old  Bill  Belllounds  had  received  the  news 
in  a  singular  mood;  he  offered  no  encomiums  to  the  vic 
tor;  contrary  to  his  usual  custom  of  lauding  every  achieve 
ment  of  labor  or  endurance,  he  now  seemed  almost  to 
regret  the  affray.  Jack  Belllounds  had  returned  from 
Kremmling  and  he  was  present  when  Burley  brought 
news  of  the  rustlers.  What  he  thought  none  of  the  cow- 
boys  vouchsafed  to  say,  but  he  was  drunk  the  next  dayc 

301 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  he  lost  a  handful  of  gold  to  them.  Never  had  he 
gambled  so  recklessly.  Indeed,  it  was  as  if  he  hated  the 
gold  he  lost.  Little  had  been  seen  of  Columbine,  but 
little  was  sufficient  to  make  the  cowboys  feel  concern. 

Wade  made  scarcely  any  comment  upon  this  news  from 
the  ranch;  next  day,  however,  he  was  up,  and  caring  for 
himself,  and  he  told  Moore  about  the  fight  and  how  he 
had  terrorized  Belllounds  and  exhorted  the  promises 
from  him. 

"  Never  in  God's  world  will  Buster  Jack  live  up  to  those 
promises!"  cried  Moore,  with  absolute  conviction.  "I 
know  him,  Ben.  He  meant  them  when  he  made  them. 
He'd  swear  his  soul  away — then  next  day  he'd  lie  or  for 
get  or  betray." 

"I'm  not  believin*  that  till  I  know,"  replied  the  hunter, 
gloomily.  "But  I'm  afraid  of  him.  ...  I've  known  bad 
men  to  change.  There's  a  grain  of  good  in  all  men — 
somethin'  divine.  An'  it  comes  out  now  an'  then.  Men 
rise  on  steppin'-stones  of  their  dead  selves  to  higher 
things!  .  .  .  This  is  Belllounds 's  chance  for  the  good  in 
him.  If  it's  not  there  he  will  do  as  you  say.  If  it  is — 
that  scare  he  had  will  be  the  turnm'-point  in  his  life.  I'm 
hopin',  but  I'm  afraid." 

"Ben,  you  wait  and  see,"  said  Moore,  earnestly. 
61  Heaven  knows  I'm  not  one  to  lose  hope  for  my  fellow- 
men — hope  for  the  higher  things  you've  taught  me.  .  .  . 
But  human  nature  is  human  nature.  Jack  can't  give 
Collie  up,  just  the  same  as  I  can't.  That's  self-preserva 
tion  as  well  as  love." 

The  day  came  when  Wade  walked  down  to  White  Slides. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  fever  in  his  blood,  which  he  tried  to 
convince  himself  was  a  result  of  his  wounds  instead  of  the 
condition  of  his  mind.  It  was  Sunday,  a  day  of  sunshine 

302 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

and  squall,  of  azure-blue  sky,  and  great,  sailing,  purple 
clouds.  The  sage  of  the  hills  glistened  and  there  was  a 
sweetness  in  the  air. 

The  cowboys  made  much  of  Wade.  But  the  old  rancher, 
seeing  him  from  the  porch,  abruptly  went  into  the  house0 
No  one  but  Wade  noticed  this  omission  of  courtesy. 
Directly,  Columbine  appeared,  waving  her  hand,  and 
running  to  meet  him. 

"Dad  saw  you.  He  told  me  to  come  out  and  excuse 
him.  .  .  .  Oh,  Ben,  I'm  so  happy  to  see  you!  You  don't 
look  hurt  at  all.  What  a  fight  you  had!  .  .  .  Oh,  I  was 
sick!  But  let  me  forget  that.  .  .  .  How  are  you?  And 
how's  Wils?" 

Thus  she  babbled  until  out  of  breath. 

"Collie,  it's  sure  good  to  see  you,"  said  Wade,  feeling 
the  old,  rich  thrill  at  her  presence.  "I'm  comin'  on 
tolerable  well.  I  wasn't  bad  hurt,  but  I  bled  a  lot.  An' 
I  reckon  I'm  older  'n  I  was  when  packin'  gun-shot  holes 
was  nothin'.  Every  year  tells.  Only  a  man  doesn't  know 
till  after.  .  .  .An'  how  are  you,  Collie?" 

Her  blue  eyes  clouded,  and  a  tremor  changed  the  ex 
pression  of  her  sweet  lips. 

"I  am  unhappy,  Ben;"  she  said.  "But  what  could  we 
expect?  It  might  be  worse.  For  instance,  you  might 
have  been  killed.  I've  much  to  be  thankful  for." 

"I  reckon  so.  We  all  have.  ...  I  fetched  a  message 
from  Wils,  but  I  oughtn't  tell  it." 

"Please  do,"  she  begged,  wistfully. 

"Well,  Wils  says,  tell  Collie  I  love  her  every  day  more 
an*  more,  an'  that  my  love  keeps  up  my  courage  an'  my 
belief  in  God,  an'  if  she  ever  marries  Jack  Belllounds  she 
can  come  up  to  visit  my  grave  among  the  columbines  on 
the  hill." 

Strange  how  Wade  experienced  comfort  in  thus  tort- 
303 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

taring  her!  She  was  rosy  at  the  beginning  of  hi&  speech 
and  white  at  its  close.  "Oh,  it's  true!  it's  true!"  she 
whispered.  "It  '11  kill  him,  as  it  will  me!" 

" Cheer  up,  Columbine,"  said  Wade.  "It's  a  long  time 
till  August  thirteenth.  .  .  .  An'  now  tell  me,  why  did  Old 
Bill  run  when  he  saw  me  comin'?" 

"Ben,  I  suspect  dad  has  the  queerest  notion  you 
want  to  tell  him  some  awful  bloody  story  about  the 
rustlers." 

"  Ahuh!  Well,  not  yet An'  how's  Jack  Belllounds 

actin'  these  days?" 

Wade  felt  the  momentousness  of  that  query,  but  it 
seemed  her  face  had  been  telltale  enough,  without  confir 
mation  of  words. 

"My  friend,  somehow  I  hate  to  tell  you.  You're 
always  so  hopeful,  so  ready  to  think  good  instead  of  evil. 
.  . .  But  Jack  has  been  rough  with  me,  almost  brutal.  He 
was  drunk  once.  Every  day  he  drinks,  sometimes  a  little, 
sometimes  more.  But  drink  changes  him.  And  it's 
dragging  dad  down.  Dad  doesn't  say  so,  yet  I  feel  he's 
afraid  of  what  will  come  next.  .  .  .  Jack  has  nagged  me  to 
marry  him  right  off.  He  wanted  to  the  day  he  came 
back  from  Kremmling.  He's  eager  to  leave  White  Slides. 
Dad  knows  that,  also,  and  it  worries  him.  But  of  course 
I  refused." 

The  presence  of  Columbine,  so  vivid  and  sweet  and 
stirring,  and  all  about  her  the  sunlight,  the  golden  gleams 
on  the  sage  hills,  and  Wade's  heart  and  brain  and  spirit 
sustained  a  subtle  transformation.  It  was  as  if  what  had 
been  beautiful  with  light  had  suddenly,  strangely  dark 
ened.  Then  Wade  imagined  he  stood  alone  in  a  gloomy 
house,  which  was  his  own  heart,  and  he  was  listening  to 
the  arrival  of  a  tragic  messenger  whose  foot  sounded 
heaw  on  the  stairs,  whose  hand  turned  slowly  upon  the 

304 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

knob,  whose  gray  presence  opened  the  door  and  crossed 
the  threshold. 

"Buster  Jack  didn't  break  off  with  you,  Collie?"  asked 
the  hunter. 

"Break  off  with  me!  .  .  .  No,  indeed!  Whatever  pos 
sessed  you  to  say  that?" 

"An'  he  didn't  offer  to  give  you  up  to  Wils  Moore?" 

"Ben,  are  you  crazy?"  cried  Columbine. 

"Collie,  listen.  I'll  tell  you."  The  old  urge  knocked 
at  Wade's  mind.  "Buster  Jack  was  in  the  cabin, 
gamblin'  with  the  rustlers,  when  I  cornered  them.  You 
remember  I  meant  to  scare  Buster  Jack  within  an  inch 
di  his  life?  Well,  I  made  use  of  my  opportunity.  I 
worked  up  the  rustlers.  Then  I  told  Jack  I'd  give  away 
his  secret.  He  made  to  jump  an'  run,  I  reckon.  But  he 
hadn't  the  nerve.  I  shot  a  piece  out  of  his  ear,  just  to 
begin  the  fun.  An'  then  I  told  the  rustlers  how  Jack 
had  double-crossed  them.  Folsom,  the  boss  rustler,  roared 
like  a  mad  steer.  He  was  wild  to  kill  Jack.  He  begged 
for  a  gun  to  shoot  out  Jack's  eyes.  An'  so  were  the  other 
rustlers  burnin'  to  kill  him.  Bad  outfit.  There  was  a 
fight,  which,  I'm  bound  to  confess,  was  not  short  an* 
sweet.  There  was  a  lot  of  shootin'.  An'  in  a  cabin  gun 
shots  almost  lift  the  roof.  Folsom  was  on  his  knees,  dyin', 
wavin'  his  gun,  whisperin'  in  fiendish  glee  that  he  had 
done  for  me.  When  he  saw  Jack  an'  remembered  he 
shook  so  with  fury  that  he  scattered  blood  all  over.  An* 
he  took  long  aim  at  Jack,  tryin'  to  steady  his  gun.  He 
couldn't,  an'  he  missed,  an'  then  fell  over  dead  with  his 
head  on  Jack's  knees.  That  left  the  red-bearded  rustler, 
who  had  hid  behind  the  chimney.  Jack  watched  the  rest 
of  that  fight,  an'  for  a  youngster  it  must  have  been  nerve- 
rackin'.  I  broke  the  rustler's  arm,  an'  then  his  knee,  anp 
then  I  got  him  in  the  hip  two  more  times  before  he  hol> 

305 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

bled  out  to  his  finish.  He'd  shot  me  up  considerable,  so 
that  when  I  braced  Jack  I  must  have  been  a  hair-raisin' 
sight.  I  made  Jack  believe  I  meant  to  murder  him.  He 
begged  an'  cried,  an'  he  got  to  prayin*  for  his  life  for  your 
sake.  It  was  sickenin',  but  it  was  what  I  wanted.  So 
then  I  made  him  swear  he'd  free  you  an'  give  you  up  to 
Moore." 

"Oh!  Oh,  Ben,  how  awful!"  whispered  Columbine, 
shuddering.  "How  could  yju  tell  me  such  a  horrible 
story?" 

"  Reckon  I  wanted  you  to  know  how  Jack  come  to  make 
the  promises  an'  what  they  were." 

"Promises!  What  are  promises  or  oaths  to  Jack  Bell- 
lounds  ? "  she  cried,  in  passionate  contempt.  "You  wasted 
your  breath.  Coward — liar  that  he  is!" 

"Ahuh!"  Wade  looked  straight  ahead  of  him  as  if  he 
saw  some  expected  and  unpleasant  thing  far  in  the  dis 
tance.  Then  with  irresistible  steps,  neither  swift  nor 
slow,  but  ponderous,  he  strode  to  the  porch  and  mounted 
the  steps. 

"Why,  Ben,  where  are  you  going?"  called  Columbine, 
in  surprise,  as  she  followed  him. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  approached  the  closed  door  of 
the  living-room. 

"Ben!"  cried  Columbine,  in  alarm. 

But  he  had  no  reply  for  her — indeed,  no  thought  of  her. 
Without  knocking,  he  opened  the  door  with  rude  and 
powerful  hand,  and,  striding  in,  closed  it  after  him. 

Bill  Belllounds  was  standing,  back  against  the  great 
stone  chimney,  arms  folded,  a  stolid  and  grim  figure, 
apparently  fortified  against  an  intrusion  he  had  ex 
pected. 

"Wai,  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  gruffly.  He  had 
sensed  catastrophe  in  the  first  sight  of  the  hunter. 

306 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Belllounds,  I  reckon  I  want  a  hell  of  a  lot,"  re 
plied  Wade.  "An'  I'm  askin'  you  to  see  we're  not 
disturbed." 

"Bar  the  door." 

Wade  dropped  the  bar  in  place,  and  then,  removing  his 
sombrero,  he  wiped  his  moist  brow. 

"  Do  you  see  an  enemy  in  me? "  he  asked,  curiously. 

"Speakin'  out  fair,  Wade,  there  ain't  any  reason  I  can 
see  that  you're  an  enemy  to  me,"  replied  Belllounds. 
"But  I  feel  somethin'.  It  ain't  because  I'm  takin'  my 
son's  side.  It's  more  than  that.  A  queer  feelin',  an'  one 
I  never  had  before.  I  got  it  first  when  you  told  the  story 
of  the  Gunnison  feud." 

"Belllounds,  we  can't  escape  our  fates.  An'  it  was 
written  long  ago  I  was  to  tell  you  a  worse  an'  harder  story 
than  that." 

"Wai,  mebbe  111  listen  an1  mebbe  I  won't.  I  ain't 
promisin',  these  days." 

"Are  you  goin'  to  make  Collie  marry  Jack? "  demanded 
the  hunter. 

"She's  willin'." 

"You  know  that's  not  true.  Collie's  willin'  to  sacrifice 
love,  honor,  an'  life  itself,  to  square  her  debt  to  you." 

The  old  rancher  flushed  a  burning  red,  and  in  his  eyes 
flared  a  spirit  of  earlier  years. 

"Wade,  you  can  go  too  far,"  he  warned.  "I'm  appre- 
ciatin'  your  good-heartedness.  It  sort  of  warms  me 
toward  you,  .  .  But  this  is  my  business.  You've  no  call 
to  interfere.  You've  done  that  too  much  already.  An' 
I'm  reckonin1  Collie  would  be  married  to  Jack  now  if  it 
hadn't  heen  for  vou." 

"Ahuh<  .  .  That's  why  I'm  thankin'  God  I  happened 
along  to  White  Slides.  Belllounds,  your  big  mistake  is 
thinkin'  vour  son  is  good  enough  for  this  girl.  An'  you're 

307 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

ipakin'  mistakes  about  me.  I've  interfered  here,  an*  you 
may  take  my  word  for  it  I  had  the  right." 

"  Strange  talk,  Wade,  but  I'll  make  allowances." 

''You  needn't.  I'll  back  my  talk.  .  .  .  But,  first,  I'm 
askin'  you — an'  if  this  talk  hurts,  I'm  sorry — why  don't 
you  give  some  of  your  love  for  your  no-good  Buster  Jack 
to  Collie?" 

Belllounds  clenched  his  huge  fists  and  glared.  Anget 
leaped  within  him.  He  recognized  in  Wade  an  outspoken, 
bitter  adversary  to  his  cherished  hopes  for  his  son  and 
his  stubborn,  precious  pride. 

"By  Heaven!  Wade,  I'll—" 

"Belllounds,  I  can  make  you  swallow  that  kind  of  talk/* 
interrupted  Wade.  "It's  man  to  man  now.  An'  I'm  a 
match  for  you  any  day.  Savvy?  ...  Do  you  think  I'm 
damn  fool  enough  to  come  here  an'  brace  you  unless  I 
knew  that.  Talk  to  me  as  you'd  talk  about  some  other 
man's  son." 

"It  ain't  possible,"  rejoined  the  rancher,  stridently. 

"Then  listen  to  me  first.  .  .  .  Your  son  Jack,  to  say  the 
least,  will  ruin  Collie.  Do  you  see  that  ? " 

"By  Gawd!  I'm  afraid  so,"  groaned  Belllounds,  big  in 
his  humiliation.  "But  it's  my  one  last  bet,  an'  I'm  goin' 
to  play  it." 

"  Do  you  know  marryin'  him  will  kill  her  ? " 

"What!  .  .  .  You're  overdoin'  your  fears,  Wade.! 
Women  don't  die  so  easy." 

"Some  of  them  die,  an*  Collie's  one  that  will,  if  she 
ever  marries  Jack." 

"///  .  .  .  Wai,  she's  goin'  to." 

"We  don't  agree,"  said  Wade,  curtly. 

"Are  you  runnin'  my  family?" 

"No.  But  I'm  runnin'  a  large-sized  if  in  this  game. 
You'll  admit  that  presently. . . .  Belllounds,  you  make  me 

308 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

mad.  You  don't  meet  me  man  to  man.  You're  not 
the  Bill  Belllounds  of  old.  Why,  all  over  this  state 
of  Colorado  you're  known  as  the  whitest  of  the  white. 
Your  name's  a  byword  for  all  that's  square  an'  big 
an'  splendid.  But  you're  so  blinded  by  your  worship 
of  that  wild  boy  that  you're  another  man  in  all  per- 
tainin'  to  him.  I  don't  want  to  harp  on  his  short- 
comin's.  I'm  for  the  girl.  She  doesn't  love  him.  She 
can't.  She  will  only  drag  herself  down  an'  die  of  a 
broken  heart.  .  .  .  Now,  I'm  askin'  you,  before  it's  too 
late  —  give  up  this  marriage." 

"Wade!     I've  shot  men  for  less  than  you've  said!" 
thundered  the  rancher,   beside  himself  with  rage  and 


"  Ahuh!  I  reckon  you  have.  But  not  men  like  me.  .  .  . 
i  tell  you,  straight  to  your  face,  it's  a  fool  deal  you're 
workin'  —  a  damn  selfish  one  —  a  dirty  job,  to  put  on  an 
innocent,  sweet  girl  —  an'  as  sure  as  you  stand  there,  if 
you  do  it,  you'll  ruin  four  lives!" 

"Four!"  exclaimed  Belllounds.  But  any  word  would 
have  expressed  his  humiliation. 

"I  should  have  said  three,  leavin'  Jack  out.  I  meant 
Collie's  an*  yours  an'  Wils  Moore's." 

"  Moore's  is  about  ruined  already,  I've  a  hunch." 

"You  can  get  hunches  you  never  dreamed  of,  Bell 
lounds,  old  as  you  are.    An'  I'll  give  you  one  presentlyc 
,.  .  .  But  we  drift  off.     Can't  you  keep  cool?" 

"  Cool  I  With  you  rantin'  hell-bent  for  election  ?  Hawi 
Haw!  .  .  .  Wade,  you're  locoed.  You  always  struck  me 
queer.  .  .  .  An'  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I'm  gettin'  tired  of  this 
talk.  We're  as  far  apart  as  the  poles.  An'  to  save  what 
good  feelin's  we  both  have,  let's  quit/' 

"You  don't  love  Collie,  then?"  queried  Wade,  imper- 
turbably 

309 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Yes,  I  do.  That's  a  fool  idee  of  yours.  It  puts  m® 
sattt  of  patience." 

"Belllounds,  you're  not  her  real  father." 

The  rancher  gave  a  start,  and  he  stared  as  he  had 
stared  before,  fixedly  and  perplexedly  at  Wade. 

"No,  I'm  not." 

"If  she  were  your  real  daughter — your  own  flesh  an' 
blood — an'  Jack  Belllounds  was  my  son,  would  you  let  her 
marry  him?" 

"Wai,  Wade,  I  reckon  I  wouldn't." 

"Then  how  can  you  expect  my  consent  to  her  marriage 
with  your  son?" 

"WHAT!"  Belllounds  lunged  over  to  Wade,  leaned 
down,  shaken  by  overwhelming  amaze. 

"Collie  is  my  daughter!" 

A  loud  expulsion  of  breath  escaped  Belllounds.  Lower 
he  leaned,  and  looked  with  piercing  gaze  into  the  face  and 
eyes  that  in  this  moment  bore  strange  resemblance  to 
Columbine. 

"So  help  me  Gawd!  .  .  .  That's  the  secret?  .  .  .  Hell- 
Bent  Wade !  An'  you've  been  on  my  trail  I ' ' 

He  staggered  to  his  big  chair  and  fell  into  it.  No  trace 
of  doubt  showed  in  his  face.  The  revelation  had  struck 
home  because  of  its  very  greatness. 

Wade  took  the  chair  opposite.  His  likeness  to  Colum 
bine  had  faded  now.  It  had  been  love,  a  spirit,  a  radi 
ance,  a  glory.  It  was  gone.  And  Wade's  face  became 
the  emblem  of  tragedy. 

"Listen,  Belllounds.  I'll  tell  you! .  .  .  The  ways  of  God 
are  inscrutable.  I've  been  twenty  years  tryin'  to  atone 
for  the  wrong  I  did  Collie's  mother.  I've  been  a  pros 
pector  for  the  trouble  of  others.  I've  been  a  bearer  of 
their  burdens  An'  if  I  can  save  Collie's  happiness  an' 
her  soul,  I  reckon  I  won't  be  denied  the  peace  of  meetm 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

her  mother  in  the  other  world.  ...  I  recognized  Collie  the 
moment  I  laid  eyes  on  her.  She  favo  s  her  mother  in 
looks,  an*  she  has  her  mother's  sensitiveness,  her  fire  an5 
pride,  an'  she  even  has  her  voice.  It's  low  an'  sweet — • 
alto,  they  used  to  call  it.  ...  But  I'd  recognized  Collie  as 
my  own  if  I'd  been  blind  an'  deaf.  .  .  .  It's  over  eighteen 
years  ago  that  we  had  the  trouble,  I  was  no  boy,  but  I 
was  terribly  in  love  with  Lucy.  An'  she  loved  me  with 
a  passion  I  never  learned  till  too  late.  We  came  West 
from  Missouri.  She  was  born  in  Texas.  I  had  a  rovin' 
disposition  an'  didn't  stick  long  at  any  kind  of  workc 
But  I  was  lookin'  for  a  ranch.  My  wife  had  some  money 
an'  I  had  high  hopes.  We  spent  our  first  year  of  married 
life  travelin'  through  Kansas.  At  Do^lgf  T  got  tied  up 
for  a  while.  You  know,  in  them  days  Dodge  'was  about 
the  wildest  camp  on  the  plains.  My  wife's  brother  run 
a  place  there.  He  wasn't  much  good.  But  she  thought 
he  was  perfect.  Strange  how  blood-relations  can't  see 
the  truth  about  their  own  people!  Anvway,  her  brother 
Spencer  had  no  use  for  me,  because  I  could  tell  how  slick 
he  was  with  the  cards  an'  beat  him  at  his  own  gamec 
Spencer  had  a  gamblin'  pard,  a  cowboy  run  out  of  Texas, 
one  Cap  Fol —  But  no  matter  about  his  name.  One  night 
they  were  fleecin'  a  stranger  an'  I  broke  into  the  game, 
winnin'  all  they  had.  The  game  ended  in  a  fight,  with 
bloodshed,  out  nobody  killed  That  set  Spencer  an'  his 
pard  Cap  against  me.  The  stranger  was  a  planter  from 
Louisiana.  He'd  been  an  officer  in  the  rebel  army.  A 
high-strung,  handsome  Southerner,  fond  of  wine  anr 
cards  an'  women.  Well,  he  got  to  payin'  my  wife  a  good 
deal  of  attention  when  I  was  awav,  which  happened  to  be 
often.  She  never  told  me.  I  was  jealous  those  days. 

"  My  little  girl  you  call  Columbine  was  born  there  dur- 
In*  a  long  absence  of  mine.     When  I  got  home  Lucv  aoc 

3" 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

the  baby  were  gone.  Also  the  Southerner!  .  .  .  Spencer 
an'  his  pard  Cap,  an'  others  they  had  in  the  deal,  proved 
to  me,  so  it  seemed,  that  the  little  girl  was  not  really  mine! 
.  .  .  An'  so  I  set  out  on  a  hunt  for  my  wife  an'  her  lover. 
I  found  them.  An'  I  killed  him  before  her  eyes.  But  she 
was  innocent,  an'  so  was  he,  as  came  out  too  late.  He'd 
been,  indeed,  her  friend.  She  scorned  me.  She  told  me 
how  her  brother  Spencer  an'  his  friends  had  established 
guilt  of  mine  that  had  driven  her  from  me. 

"I  went  back  to  Dodge  to  have  a  little  quiet  smoke 
with  these  men  who  had  ruined  me.  They  were  gone. 
The  trail  led  to  Colorado.  Nearly  a  year  later  I  rounded 
them  all  up  in  a  big  wagon-train  post  north  of  Denver. 
Another  brother  of  my  wife's,  an'  her  father,  had  come 
West,  an'  by  accident  or  fate  we  all  met  there.  We  had 
a  family  quarrel.  My  wife  would  not  forgive  me — would 
not  speak  to  me,  an*  her  people  backed  her  up.  I  made 
the  great  mistake  to  take  her  father  an'  other  brothers 
to  belong  to  the  same  brand  as  Spencer.  In  this  I  wronge** 
them  an'  her. 

"What  I  did  to  them,  Belllounds,  is  one  story  I'll  never 
tell  to  any  man  who  might  live  to  repeat  it.  But  it  drove 
my  wife  near  crazy.  An'  it  made  me  Hell-Bent  Wade! 
.  .  .  She  ran  off  from  me  there,  an'  I  trailed  her  all  over 
Colorado.  An'  the  end  of  that  trail  was  not  a  hundred 
miles  from  where  we  stand  now.  The  last  trace  I  had  was 
of  the  burnin'  of  a  prairie-schooner  by  Arapahoes  as  they 
were  goin'  home  from  a  foray  on  the  Utes.  .  .  .  The  little 
girl  might  have  toddled  off  the  trail.  But  I  reckon  she 
was  hidden  or  dropped  by  her  mother,  or  some  one  fleein* 
for  life.  Your  men  found  her  in  the  columbines." 

Belllounds  drew  a  long,  deep  breath. 

"What  a  man  never  expects  always  comes  true.  .  .  . 
Wade,  the  lass  is  yours.  I  can  see  it  in  the  way  you  look 

3" 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

at  me.  I  can  feel  it.  ...  She's  been  like  my  own.  I've 
done  my  best,  accordin'  to  my  conscience.  An'  I've  loved 
her,  for  all  they  say  I  couldn't  see  aught  but  Jack.  .  .  . 
You'll  take  her  away  from  me?" 

"No.     Never,"  was  the  melancholy  reply. 

"What!     Why  not?" 

44  Because  she  loves  you.  ...  I  could  never  reveal  myself 
to  Collie.  I  couldn't  win  her  love  with  a  lie.  An'  I'd 
have  to  lie,  to  be  false  as  hell.  .  .  .  False  to  her  mother 
an'  to  Collie  an'  to  all  I  hold  high!  I'd  have  to  tell 
Collie  the  truth — the  wrong  I  did  her  mother — the  hell 
I  visited  upon  her  mother's  people.  .  .  .  She'd  fear  me.'* 

"Ahuli!  .  .  .  An'  you'll  never  change — I  reckon  that!'' 
exclaimed  Belllounds. 

"No.  I  changed  once,  eighteen  years  ago.  I  can't  go 
back.  ...  I  can't  undo  all  I  hoped  was  good." 

"You  think  Collie  'd  fear  you?" 

"She'd  never  love  me  as  she  does  you,  or  as  she  loves 
roe  even  now.  That  is  my  rock  of  refuge." 

"She'd  hate  you,  Wade." 

"  I  reckon.     An'  so  she  must  never  know." 

"Ahuh!  .  .  .  Wai,  wal,  life  is  a  hell  of  a  dealt  Wade, 
if  you  could  live  yours  over  again,  knowin'  what  you  know 
now,  an'  that  you'd  love  an'  suffer  the  same — would  you 
want  to  do  it?" 

"Yes.  I  love  life,  with  all  it  brings.  I  wouldn't  have 
the  joy  without  the  pain.  But  I  reckon  only  men  who've 
come  to  our  years  would  want  it  over  again." 

"Wal,  I'm  with  you  thar.  I'd  take  what  came.  Rain 
an  sun!  .  .  .  But  all  this  you  tell,  an*  the  hell  you  hint  at, 
ain't  changin'  this  hyar  deal  of  Jack's  an'  Collie's.  No^ 
one  jot !  ...  If  she  remains  my  adopted  daughter  she  mar 
ries  my  son.  .  .  .  Wade,  I'm  haltered  like  the  north  star  m 
that." 
21  31* 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

" Belllounds,  will  you  take  a  day  to  think  it  over?" 
appealed  Wade. 

"  Ahuh!     But  that  won't  change  me." 

"Won't  it  change  you  to  know  that  if  you  force  this 
marriage  you'll  lose  all?" 

"All!    Ain't  that  more  queer  talk?" 

"I  mean  lose  all — your  son,  your  adopted  daughter — 
his  chance  of  reforming  her  hope  of  happiness.  These 
ought  to  be  all  in  life  left  to  you." 

"Wai,  they  are.  But  I  can't  see  your  argument. 
You're  beyond  me,  Wade.  You're  holdin*  back,  like  you 
did  with  your  hell-bent  story." 

Ponderously,  as  if  the  burden  and  the  doom  of  the  world 
weighed  him  down,  the  hunter  got  up  and  fronted  Bell 
lounds. 

"When  I'm  driven  to  tell  I'll  come.  . .  .  But,  once  more, 
old  man,  choose  between  generosity  an'  selfishness.  Be 
tween  blood  tie  an'  noble  loyalty  to  your  good  deed  in  :ts 
beginnin'.  .  .  .  Will  you  give  up  this  marriage  for  your  son 
— so  that  Collie  can  have  the  man  she  loves?" 

"You  mean  your  young  pard  an*  two-bit  of  a  rustler — 
Wils  Moore?" 

"Wils  Moore,  yes.  My  friend,  an'  a  man,  Belllounds, 
such  as  you  or  I  never  was." 

4 No!"  thundered  the  rancher,  purple  in  the  face. 

With  bowed  head  and  dragging  step  Wade  left  the  room. 

By  ••;>«*  degrees  of  plodding  steps,  and  periods  of  ab 
stracted  lagging,  the  hunter  made  his  way  back  to  Moore's 
cabin.  At  his  entrance  the  cowboy  leaped  up  with  a 
startled  cry. 

"Oh,  Wade!  ...  Is  Collie  dead?"  he  cried. 

Such  was  the  extent  of  calamity  he  imagined  from  the 
somber  face  of  Wade. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

3<No.     Collie's  well." 
"Then,  man,  what  on  earth's  happened?" 
"Nothin'  vet.  .  .  .  But  somethin'  is  goin'  on  in  my 
mind.  .  .  .  Moore,  I'd  like  you  to  let  me  alone." 

At  sunset  Wade  was  pacing  the  aspen  grove  on  the  hill. 
There  was  sunlight  and  shade  under  the  trees,  a  rosy  gold 
on  the  sage  slopes,  a  purple-and-violet  veil  between  the 
black  ranges  and  the  sinking  sun. 

Twilight  fell.  The  stars  came  out  white  and  clear. 
Night  cloaked  the  valley  with  dark  shadows  and  the  hills 
with  its  obscurity.  The  blue  vault  overhead  deepened 
and  darkened.  The  hunter  patrolled  his  beat,  and  hours 
were  moments  to  him.  He  heard  the  low  hum  of  the 
insects,  the  murmur  of  running  water,  the  rustle  of  the 
wind.  A  coyote  cut  the  keen  air  with  high-keyed,  stac 
cato  cry.  The  owls  hooted,  with  dismal  and  weird  plaint, 
one  to  the  other.  Then  a  wolf  mourned.  But  these 
sounds  only  accentuated  the  loneliness  and  wildness  of 
the  silent  night. 

Wade  listened  to  them,  to  the  silence.  He  felt  the  wild- 
ness  and  loneliness  of  the  place,  the  breathing  of  nature; 
he  peered  aloft  at  the  velvet  blue  of  the  mysterious  sky 
with  its  deceiving  stars.  All  that  had  been  of  help  to  him 
through  days  of  trial  was  now  as  if  it  had  never  been. 
When  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  great,  dark  peak,  so  bold 
and  clear-cut  against  the  sky,  it  was  not  to  receive  strength 
again.  Nature  in  its  cruelty  mocked  him.  His  struggle 
had  to  do  with  the  most  perfect  of  nature's  works — man. 

Wade  was  now  in  passionate  strife  with  the  encroaching 
mood  that  was  a  mocker  of  his  idealism.  Many  times 
during  the  strange,  long  martyrdom  of  his  penance  had 
he  faced  this  crisis,  only  to  go  down  to  defeat  before  ele 
mental  instincts.  His  soul  was  steeped  in  gloom,  but  his 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

intelligence  had  not  yet  succumbed  to  passion.  The 
beauty  of  Columbine's  character  and  the  nobility  of 
Moore's  were  not  illusions  to  Wade.  They  were  true. 
These  two  were  of  the  finest  fiber  of  human  nature.  They 
loved.  They  represented  youth  and  hope — a  progress 
through  the  ages  toward  a  better  race.  Wade  believed  in 
the  good  to  be,  in  the  future  of  men.  Nevertheless,  all 
that  was  fine  and  worthy  in  Columbine  and  Moore  was 
to  go  unrewarded,  unfulfilled,  because  of  the  selfish  pride 
of  an  old  man  and  the  evil  passion  of  the  son.  It  was  a 
conflict  as  old  as  life.  Of  what  avail  were  Columbine's 
high  sense  of  duty,  Moore's  fine  manhood,  the  many  vic 
tories  they  had  won  over  the  headlong  and  imperious  de 
sires  of  love?  What  avail  were  Wade's  good  offices,  his 
spiritual  teaching,  his  eternal  hope  in  the  order  of  circum 
stances  working  out  to  good?  These  beautiful  charac 
teristics  of  virtue  were  not  so  strong  as  the  unchangeable 
passion  of  old  Belllounds  and  the  vicious  depravity  of  his 
son.  Wade  could  not  imagine  himself  a  god,  proving 
that  the  wages  of  sin  was  death.  Yet  in  his  life  he  had 
often  been  an  impassive  destiny,  meting  out  terrible  con 
sequences.  Here  he  was  incalculably  involved.  This  was 
the  cumulative  end  of  years  of  mounting  plots,  tangled 
and  woven  into  the  web  of  his  pain  and  his  remorse  and 
his  ideal.  But  hope  was  dying.  That  was  his  strife- 
realization  against  the  morbid  clairvoyance  of  his  mind. 
He  could  not  help  Jack  Belllounds  to  be  a  better  man. 
He  could  not  inspire  the  old  rancher  to  a  forgetfulness  of 
selfish  and  blinded  aims.  He  could  not  prove  to  Moore 
the  truth  of  the  reward  that  came  from  unflagging  hope 
and  unassailable  virtue.  He  could  not  save  Columbine 
with  his  ideals. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  Wade  plodded  under  the  rustling 
aspens.    The  insects  ceased  to  hum,  the  owls  to  hoot,  th$ 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

wolves  to  mourn.  The  shadows  of  the  long  spruces  grad 
ually  merged  into  the  darkness  of  night.  Above,  infi 
nitely  high,  burned  the  pale  stars,  wise  and  cold,  aloof 
and  indifferent,  eyes  of  other  worlds  of  mystery. 

In  those  night  hours  something  in  Wade  died,  but  his 
idealism,  unquenchable  and  inexplicable,  the  very  soul  of 
the  man,  saw  its  justification  and  fulfilment  in  the  distant 
future. 

The  gray  of  the  dawn  stole  over  the  eastern  range,  and 
before  its  opaque  gloom  the  blackness  of  night  retreated, 
until  valley  and  slope  and  grove  were  shrouded  in  spectral 
light,  where  all  seemed  unreal. 

And  with  it  the  gray-gloomed  giant  of  Wade's  mind, 
the  morbid  and  brooding  spell,  had  gained  its  long-en 
croaching  ascendancy.  He  had  again  found  the  man  to 
whom  he  must  tell  his  story.  Tragic  and  irrevocable 
decree!  It  was  his  life  that  forced  him,  his  crime,  his 
remorse,  his  agony,  his  endless  striving.  How  true  had 
been  his  steps!  They  had  led,  by  devious  and  tortuous 
paths,  to  the  home  of  his  daughter. 

Wade  crouched  under  the  aspens,  accepting  this  burden 
as  a  man  being  physically  loaded  with  tremendous  weights. 
His  shoulders  bent  to  them.  His  breast  was  sunken  and 
labored.  All  his  muscles  were  cramped.  His  blood 
flowed  sluggishly.  His  heart  beat  with  slow,  muffled 
throbs  in  his  ears.  There  was  a  creeping  cold  in  his  veins, 
ice  in  his  marrow,  and  death  in  his  soul.  The  giant  that 
had  been  shrouded  in  gray  threw  off  his  cloak,  to  stand 
revealed,  black  and  terrible.  And  it  was  he  who  spoke 
to  Wade,  in  dreadful  tones,  like  knells.  Bent  Wade — 
man  of  misery — who  could  find  no  peace  on  earth — whose 
presence  unknit  the  tranquil  lives  of  people  and  poisoned 
their  blood  and  marked  them  for  doom!  Wherever  he 
wandered  there  followed  the  curse!  Always  this  had  been 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

so.  He  was  the  harbinger  of  catastrophe.  He  who 
preached  wisdom  and  claimed  to  be  taught  by  the  flowers, 
who  loved  life  and  hated  injustice,  who  mingled  with  his 
kind,  ever  searching  for  that  one  who  needed  him,  he  must 
become  the  woe  and  the  bane  and  curse  of  those  he  would 
only  serve!  Insupportable  and  pitiful  fate!  The  fiends 
of  the  past  mocked  him,  like  wicked  ghouls,  voiceless  and 
dim.  The  faces  of  the  men  he  had  killed  were  around 
him  in  the  gray  gloom,  pale,  drifting  visages  of  distortion, 
accusing  him,  claiming  him.  Likewise,  these  gleams  of 
faces  were  specters  of  his  mind,  a  procession  eternal, 
mournful,  and  silent,  wending  their  way  on  and  on  through 
the  regions  of  his  thought.  All  were  united,  all  drove 
him,  all  put  him  on  the  trail  of  catastrophe.  They  fore 
shadowed  the  future,  they  inclosed  events,  they  lured  him 
with  his  endless  illusions.  He  was  in  the  vortex  of  a  vast 
whirlpool,  not  of  water  or  of  wind,  but  of  life.  Alas!  he 
seemed  indeed  the  very  current  of  that  whirlpool,  a  mon 
strous  force,  around  which  evil  circled  and  lurked  and  con 
quered.  Wade— who  had  the  ill-omened  croak  of  the 
raven — Wade — who  bent  his  driven  steps  toward  hell! 

In  the  brilliant  sunlight  of  the  summer  morning  Wade 
bent  his  resistless  steps  down  toward  White  Slides  Ranch. 
The  pendulum  had  swung.  The  hours  were  propitious. 
Seemingly,  events  that  already  cast  their  shadows  waited 
for  him.  He  saw  Jack  Belllounds  going  out  on  the  fast 
and  furious  ride  which  had  become  his  morning  habit. 

Columbine  intercepted  Wade.  The  shade  of  woe  and 
tragedy  in  her  face  were  the  same  as  he  had  pictured  there 
in  his  gloomy  vigil  of  the  night. 

"My  friend,  I  was  coming  to  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can  bear 
no  more!" 

Her  hair  was  disheveled,  her   dress   disordered,  the 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

hands  she  tremblingly  held  out  bore  discolored  marks. 
Wade  led  her  into  the  seclusion  of  the  willow  trail. 

"Oh,  Ben!  ...  He  fought  me— like— a  beast!"  she 
panted. 

"Collie,  you  needn't  tell  me  more,"  said  Wade,  gently. 
s<  Go  up  to  Wils.  Tell  him." 

"But  I  must  tell  you.  I  can  bear — no  more.  .  .  .  He 
fought  me — hurt  me — and  when  dad  heard  us — and  came 
— Jack  lied.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  dog ! .  .  .  Ben,  his  father  believed 
— when  Jack  swore  he  was  only  mad — only  trying  to  shake 
me — for  my  indifference  and  scorn.  .  .  .  But,  my  God! 
— Jack  meant ..." 

"Collie,  go  up  to  Wils,"  interposed  the  hunter. 

"I  want  to  see  Wils.  I  need  to — I  must.  But  I'm 
afraid. . . .  Oh,  it  will  make  things  worse!" 

"Go!" 

She  turned  away,  actuated  by  more  than  her  will. 

"Collie!"  came  the  call,  piercingly  and  strangely  after 
her.  Bewildered,  startled  by  the  wildness  of  that  cry,  she 
wheeled.  But  Wade  was  gone.  The  shaking  of  the  wil 
lows  attested  to  his  hurry. 

Old  Belllounds  braced  his  huge  shoulders  against 
the  wall  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  driven  to  his  last 
stand. 

"Ahuh!"  he  rolled,  sonorously.  "So  hyar  you  are 
again? .  .  .  Wai,  tell  your  worst,  Hell-Bent  Wade,  an'  let's 
have  an  end  to  your  croakin'." 

Belllounds  had  fortified  himself,  not  with  convictions  or 
with  illusions,  but  with  the  last  desperate  courage  of  a 
man  true  to  himself. 

"I'll  tell  you  .  .  ."  began  the  hunter. 

And  the  rancher  threw  up  his  hands  in  a  mockery  that 
was  furious,  yet  with  outward  shrinking. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDEk 

**Just  now,  when  Buster  Jack  fought  with  ColHe^  h% 
meant  bad  by  her!** 

"  Aw,  no ! ...  He  was  jest  rude — tryin*  to  be  masterfuL 
.  .  .  An*  the  lass  's  like  a  wild  filly.  She  needs  a  tamiif 
down." 

Wade  stretched  forth  a  lean  and  quivering  hand  that 
seemed  the  symbol  of  presaged  and  tragic  truth. 

"Listen,  Belllotmds,  an'  I'll  tell  you.  .  r .  No  use  tryin* 
to  hatch  a  rotten  egg!  There's  no  good  in  your  son.  His 
good  intentions  he  paraded  for  virtues,  believin'  himself 
that  he'd  changed.  But  a  flip  of  the  wind  made  him 
Buster  Jack  again.  .  .  .  Collie  would  sacrifice  her  life  for 
duty  to  you — whom  she  loves  as  her  father.  Wils  Moore 
sacrificed  his  honor  for  Collie — rather  than  let  you  learn 
the  truth.  .  .  .  But  they  call  me  Hell-Bent  Wade,  an*  J 
will  tell  you!" 

The  straining  hulk  of  Belllounds  crouched  lower,  as  if 
to  gather  impetus  for  a  leap.  Both  huge  hands  were  out 
spread  as  if  to  ward  off  attack  from  an  unseen  but  long- 
dreaded  foe.  The  great  eyes  rolled.  And  underneath 
the  terror  and  certainty  and  tragedy  of  his  appearance 
seemed  to  surge  the  resistless  and  rising  swell  of  a  dammed- 
«p,  terrible  rage. 

"I'll  tell  you  .  .  ."  went  on  the  remorseless  voice.  "I 
watched  your  Buster  Jack.  I  watched  him  gamble  an* 
drink.  I  trailed  him.  I  found  the  little  circles  an'  the 
crooked  horse  tracks — made  to  trap  Wils  Moore.  .  .  „  A 
damned  cunnin'  trick!  .  .  .  Burley  suspects  a  nigger  in 
the-  wood-pile.  Wils  Moore  knows  the  truth.  He  lied  for 
Collie's  sake  an'  yours.  He'd  have  stood  the  trial — an* 
gone  to  jail  to  save  Collie  from  what  she  dreaded.  .  .  . 
Belllounds,  your  son  was  in  the  cabin  gamblin'  with 
the  rustlers  when  I  cornered  them.  .  ,  .  I  offered  to 
keep  Jack's  secret-  if  he'd  swear  to  give  Collie  up. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

He  swore  on  his  knees,  beggin'  in  her  name!  .  .  .  An* 
he  comes  back  to  bully  her,  an'  worse.  .  .  .  Buster 
Jack!  .  .  .  He's  the  thorn  in  your  heart,  Belllounds. 
He's  the  rustler  who  stole  your  cattle  1  .  .  .  Your  pet 
son — a  sneakin'  thief-"" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

JACK  BELLLOUNDS  came  riding  down  the  valley 
trail.  His  horse  was  in  a  lather  of  sweat.  Both  hail 
and  blood  showed  on  the  long  spurs  this  son  of  a  great 
pioneer  used  in  his  pleasure  rides.  He  had  never  loved  a 
horse. 

At  a  point  where  the  trail  met  the  brook  there  were 
thick  willow  patches,  with  open,  grassy  spots  between. 
As  Belllounds  reached  this  place  a  man  stepped  out  of 
the  willows  and  laid  hold  of  the  bridle.  The  horse  shied 
and  tried  to  plunge,  but  an  iron  arm  held  him. 

"Get  down,  Buster,"  ordered  the  man. 

It  was  Wade. 

Belllounds  had  given  as  sharp  a  start  as  his  horse.  He 
was  sober,  though  the  heated  red  tinge  of  his  face  gave 
indication  of  a  recent  use  of  the  bottle.  That  color 
quickly  receded.  Events  of  the  last  month  had  left  traces 
of  the  hardening  and  lowering  of  Jack  Belllounds 's  nature. 

"Wha-at? . .  .  Let  go  that  bridle!"  he  ejaculated. 

Wade  held  it  fast,  while  he  gazed  up  into  the  prominent 
eyes,  where  fear  shone  and  struggled  with  intolerance  and 
arrogance  and  quickening  gleams  of  thought. 

"You  an*  I  have  somethin'  to  talk  over,"  said  the 
hunter. 

Belllounds  shrank  from  the  low,  cold,  even  voice,  that 
evidently  reminded  him  of  the  last  time  he  had  heard  it. 

"No,  we  haven't,"  he  declared,  quickly.  He  seemed 
to  gather  assurance  with  his  spoken  thought,  and  con- 

322 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

scious  fear  left  him.  "Wade,  you  took  advantage  of  me 
that  day — when  you  made  me  swear  things.  I've 
changed  my  mind.  .  .  .  And  as  for  that  deal  with  the 
rustlers,  I've  got  my  story.  It's  as  good  as  yours.  I've 
been  waiting  for  you  to  tell  my  father.  You've  got  some 
reason  for  not  telling  him.  I've  a  hunch  it's  Collie.  I'm 
on  to  you,  and  I've  got  my  nerve  back.  You  can  gamble 
I— " 

He  had  grown  excited  when  Wade  interrupted  him. 

"Will  you  get  off  that  horse?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  replied  Belllounds,  bluntly. 

With  swift  and  powerful  lunge  Wade  pulled  Belllounds 
down,  sliding  him  shoulders  first  into  the  grass.  The 
released  horse  shied  again  and  moved  away.  Buster  Jack 
raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  pale  with  rage  and  alarm. 
Wade  kicked  him,  not  with  any  particular  violence. 

"Get  up!  "he  ordered. 

The  kick  had  brought  out  the  rage  in  Belllounds  at  the 
expense  of  the  amaze  and  alarm. 

"Did  you  kick  me?11  he  shouted. 

"Buster,  I  was  only  handin'  you  a  bunch  of  flowers — 
some  columbines,  as  your  taste  runs,"  replied  Wade, 
contemptuously. 

"I'll— I'll— "  returned  Buster  Jack,  wildly,  bursting  for 
expression.  His  hand  went  to  his  gun. 

"Go  ahead,  Buster.  Throw  your  gun  on  me.  That  '11 
save  maybe  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  talk." 

It  was  then  Jack  Belllounds's  face  turned  livid.  Com 
prehension  had  dawned  upon  him. 

"You — you  want  me  to  fight  you?"  he  queried,  in 
hoarse  accents. 

"I  reckon  that's  what  I  meant." 

No  affront,  no  insult,  no  blow  could  have  affected 
Buster  Jack  as  that  sudden  knowledge. 

323 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Why — why — you're  crazy!  Me  fight  you — a  gun 
man,"  he  stammered.  "No — no.  It  wouldn't  be  fair. 
Not  an  even  break ! .  .  .  No,  I'd  have  no  chance  on  earth ! " 

"I'll  give  you  first  shot,"  went  on  Wade,  in  his  strange^ 
monotonous  voice. 

"Bah!  You're  lying  to  me,"  replied  Belllounds,  with 
pale  grimace.  "You  just  want  me  to  get  a  gun  in  my 
hand — then  you'll  drop  me,  and  claim  an  even  break." 

"No.  I'm  square.  You  saw  me  play  square  with  your 
rustler  pard.  He  was  a  lifelong  enemy  of  mine.  An'  a 
gun-fighter  to  boot!  .  .  .  Pull  your  gun  an'  let  drive.  I'll 
take  my  chances." 

Buster  Jack's  eyes  dilated.  He  gasped  huskily.  He 
pulled  his  gun,  but  actually  did  not  have  strength  or  cour 
age  enough  to  raise  it.  His  arm  shook  so  that  the  gun 
rattled  against  his  chaps. 

"No  nerve,  hey?  Not  half  a  man!  .  .  .  Buster  Jack, 
why  don't  you  finish  game?  Make  up  for  your  low-down 
tricks.  At  the  last  try  to  be  worthy  of  your  dad.  In 
his  day  he  was  a  real  man.  .  .  .  Let  him  have  the  consola 
tion  that  you  faced  Hell-Bent  Wade  an'  died  in  your 
boots!" 

"I^can't— fight  you!"  panted  Belllounds.  "I  know 
now!  ...  I  saw  you  throw  a  gun!  It  wouldn't  be  fair!" 

"But  I'll  make  you  fight  me,"  returned  Wade,  in  steely 
tones.  "I'm  givin'  you  a  chance  to  dig  up  a  little  man 
hood.  Askin'  you  to  meet  me  man  to  man!  Handin' 
you  a  little  the  best  of  it  to  make  the  odds  even ! .  .  .  Once 
more,  will  you  be  game?" 

"Wade,  I'll  not  fight— I'm  going—"  replied  Belllounds, 
and  he  moved  as  if  to  turn. 

"Halt!  .  .  ."  Wade  leaped  at  the  white  Belllounds. 
"If  you  run  I'll  break  a  leg  for  you — an'  then  I'll  beat 
your  miserable  brains  out! .  .  .  Have  you  no  sense?  Can't 

324 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

you  recognize  what's  comin'?  .  .  .  Tm  goin'  to  kill  you, 
Buster  Jack!" 

"My  God!"  whispered  the  other,  understanding  fully 
at  last. 

"Here's  where  you  pay  for  your  dirty  work.  The  time 
comes  to  every  man.  You've  a  choice,  not  to  live — for 
you'll  never  get  away  from  Hell-Bent  Wade — but  to  rise 
above  yourself  at  last." 

"But  what  for?  Why  do  you  want  to  kill  me?  I 
never  harmed  you." 

"Columbine  is  my  daughter!"  replied  the  hunter. 

"Ah!"  breathed  Belllounds. 

"She  loves  Wils  Moore,  who's  as  white  a  man  as  you 
are  black." 

Across  the  pallid,  convulsed  face  of  Belllounds  spread 
a  slow,  dull  crimson. 

"Aha,  Buster  Jack!  I  struck  home  there,"  flashed 
Wade,  his  voice  rising.  "That  gives  your  eyes  the  ugly 
look.  ...  I  hate  them  lyin',  bulgin'  eyes  of  yours.  An' 
when  nay  time  comes  to  shoot  I'm  goin'  to  put  them  both 
out." 

"By  Heaven!  Wade,  you'll  have  to  kill  me  if  you  ever 
expect  that  club-foot  Moore  to  get  Collie!" 

"He'll  get  her,"  replied  Wade,  triumphantly.  "Collie's 
with  him  now.  I  sent  her.  I  told  her  to  tell  Wils  how 
you  tried  to  force  her — " 

Belllounds  began  to  shake  all  over.  A  torture  of  jealous 
hate  and  deadly  terror  convulsed  him. 

"Buster,  did  you  ever  think  you'd  get  her  kisses — as 
Wils  's  gettin'  right  now?"  queried  the  hunter.  "Good 
Lord !  the  conceit  of  some  men !  .  .  .  Why,  you  poor,  weak- 
minded,  cowardly  pet  of  a  blinded  old  man — you  con 
ceited  ass — you  selfish  an'  spoiled  boy!  .  .  .  Collie  never 
had  any  use  for  you.  An'  now  she  hates  you." 

325 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"It  was  you  who  made  her!"  yelled  Belllounds,  foam 
ing  at  the  mouth. 

"Sure,"  went  on  the  deliberate  voice,  ringing  with 
scorn.  "An*  only  a  little  while  ago  she  called  you  a  dog. 
...  I  reckon  she  meant  a  different  kind  of  a  dog  than  the 
hounds  over  there.  For  to  say  they  were  like  you  would 
be  an  insult  to  them.  .  .  .  Sure  she  hates  you,  an'  I'll  gam 
ble  right  now  she's  got  her  arms  around  Wils's  neck!" 

" !"  hissed  Belllounds. 

"Well,  you've  got  a  gun  in  your  hand,"  went  on  the 
taunting  voice.  "Ahuh!  .  .  .  Have  it  your  way.  I'm 
warmin'  up  now,  an'  I'd  like  to  tell  you  .  .  ." 

"Shut  up!"  interrupted  the  other,  frantically.  The 
blood  in  him  was  rising  to  a  fever  heat.  But  fear  still 
clamped  him.  He  could  not  raise  the  gun  and  he  seemed 
in  agony. 

"Your  father  knows  you're  a  thief,"  declared  Wade, 
with  remorseless,  deliberate  intent.  "I  told  him  how  I 
watched  you — trailed  you — an'  learned  the  plot  you 
hatched  against  Wils  Moore.  .  .  .  Buster  Jack  busted  him 
self  at  last,  stealin'  his  own  father's  cattle.  .  .  .  I've  seen 
some  ragin'  men  in  my  day,  but  Old  Bill  had  them  beaten. 
You've  disgraced  him — broken  his  heart — embittered  the 
end  of  his  life.  .  .  .  An'  he'd  mean  for  you  what  I  mean 
now!" 

"He'd  never — harm  me!"  gasped  Buster  Jack,  shud 
dering. 

"He'd  kill  you — you  white-livered  pup!"  cried  Wade, 
with  terrible  force.  "Kill  you  before  he'd  let  you  go  to 
worse  dishonor! .  .  .  An'  I'm  goin'  to  save  him  stainin'  his 
hands." 

"I'll  kill  you!"  burst  out  Belllounds,  ending  in  a  shriek. 
But  this  was  not  the  temper  that  always  produced  heed 
less  action  in  him.  It  was  hate.  He  could  not  raise  the 

326 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

gun.  His  intelligence  still  dominated  his  will.  Yet  fury 
had  mitigated  his  terror. 

"You'll  be  doin'  me  a  service,  Buster.  .  .  .  But  you're 
mighty  slow  at  startin'.  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  play  my 
last  trump  to  make  you  fight.  Oh,  by  God!  I  can  tell 
you!  .  .  .  Belllounds,  there  're  dead  men  callin'  me  now. 
Callin'  me  not  to  murder  you  in  cold  blood !  I  killed  one 
man  once — a  man  who  wouldn't  fight — an  innocent  man! 
I  killed  him  with  my  bare  hands,  an'  if  I  tell  you  my  story 
— an'  how  I  killed  him — an'  that  I'll  do  the  same  for  you. 
.  .  .  You'll  save  me  that,  Buster.  No  man  with  a  gun  in 
his  hands  could  face  what  he  knew.  .  .  .  But  save  me 
more.  Save  me  the  tellin' ! " 

"No!    No!     I  won't  listen!" 

"Maybe  I  won't  have  to,"  replied  Wade,  mournfully. 
He  paused,  breathing  heavily.  The  sober  calm  was  gone. 

Belllounds  lowered  the  half-raised  gun,  instantly  an 
swering  to  the  strange  break  in  Wade's  strained  domi 
nance. 

"Don't  tell  me — any  more!  I'll  not  listen!  ...  I  won't 
fight!  Wade,  you're  crazy!  Let  me  off  an*  I  swear — " 

"Buster,  I  told  Collie  you  were  three  years  in  jail!" 
suddenly  interrupted  Wade. 

A  mortal  blow  dealt  Belllounds  would  not  have  caused 
such  a  shock  of  amaze,  of  torture.  The  secret  of  the 
punishment  meted  out  to  him  by  his  father !  The  hideous 
thing  which,  instead  of  reforming,  had  ruined  him!  All 
of  hell  was  expressed  in  his  burning  eyes. 

"  Ahuh! . . .  I've  known  it  long!"  cried  Wade,  tragically. 
"Buster  Jack,  you're  the  man  who  must  hear  my  story, 
.../'//  teil  you " 

In  the  aspen  grove  up  the  slope  of  Sage  Valley  Colum 
bine  and  Wilson  were  sitting  on  a  log.  Whatever  had 

327 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

been  their  discourse,  it  had  left  Moore  with  head  bowed 
in  his  hands,  and  with  Columbine  staring  with  sad 
eyes  that  did  not  see  what  they  looked  at.  Columbine's 
mind  then  seemed  a  dull  blank.  Suddenly  she  started. 

' '  Wils ! ' '  she  cried.     "  Did  you  hear — anything  ? ' ' 

"No,"  he  replied,  wearily  raising  his  head. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  shot,"  said  Columbine.  "It—it 
sort  of  made  me  jump.  I'm  nervous." 

Scarcely  had  she  finished  speaking  when  two  clear,  deep 
detonations  rang  out.  Gun-shots ! 

"There! . . .  Oh,  Wils!    Did  you  hear?" 

"Hear!"  whispered  Moore.  He  grew  singularly  white. 
"Yes— yes!  .  .  .Collie—" 

"Wils,"  she  interrupted,  wildly,  as  she  began  to  shake. 
"Just  a  little  bit  ago — I  saw  Jack  riding  down  the  trail!" 

"Collie!  .  »  .  Those  two  shots  came  from  Wade's  gun! 
I'd  know  it  among  a  thousand ! . . .  Are  you  sure  you  heard 
a  shot  before?" 

"Oh,  something  dreadful  has  happened!  Yes,  I'm  sure. 
Perfectly  sure.  A  shot  not  so  loud  or  heavy." 

" My  God! "  exclaimed  Moore,  staring  aghast  at  Colum 
bine.  "Maybe  that's  what  Wade  meant.  I  never  saw 
through  him." 

"  Tell  me.  Oh,  I  don't  understand !"  wailed  Columbine, 
wringing  her  hands. 

Moore  did  not  explain  what  he  meant.  For  a  crippled 
man,  he  made  quick  time  in  getting  to  his  horse  and 
mounting. 

"Collie,  I'll  ride  down  there.  I'm  afraid  something 
has  happened.  ...  I  never  understood  him !  .  .  .  I  forgot 
he  was  Hell-Bent  Wade!  If  there's  been  a — a  fight  or 
any  trouble — I'll  ride  back  and  meet  you." 

Then  he  rode  down  the  trail. 

Columbine  had  come  without  her  horse,  and  she  started 

328 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

homeward  on  foot.  Her  steps  dragged.  She  knew  some 
thing  dreadful  had  happened.  Her  heart  beat  slowly 
and  painfully;  there  was  an  oppression  upon  her  breast; 
her  brain  whirled  with  contending  tides  of  thought.  She 
remembered  Wade's  face.  How  blind  she  had  been!  It 
exhausted  her  to  walk,  though  she  went  so  slowly.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  chill  and  a  darkening  in  the  atmosphere, 
an  unreality  in  the  familiar  slopes  and  groves,  a  strange 
ness  and  shadow  upon  White  Slides  Valley. 

Moore  did  not  retarn  to  meet  her.  His  white  horse 
grazed  in  the  pasture  opposite  the  first  clump  of  willows, 
where  Sage  Valley  merged  into  the  larger  valley.  Then 
she  saw  other  horses,  among  them  Lem  Billings's  bay  mtts- 
tang.  Columbine  faltered  on,  when  suddenly  she  recog 
nized  the  horse  Jack  had  ridden — a  sorrel,  spent  and  foam- 
covered,  standing  saddkd,  with  bridle  down  and  riderless 
— then  certainty  of  something  awful  clamped  her  with 
horror.  Men's  husky  voices  reached  her  throbbing  ears. 
Some  one  was*  running.  Footsteps  thudded  and  died 
away.  Then  she  saw  Lem  Billings  come  out  of  the  wil 
lows,  look  her  way,  and  hurry  toward  her.  His  awkward, 
cowboy  gait  seemed  too  slow  for  his  earnestness.  Colum 
bine  felt  the  piercing  gaze  of  his  eyes  as  her  own  became 
dim. 

"Miss  Collie,  thar's  been— tumble  fight!"  he  panted. 

"Oh,  Lem!  ...  I  know.  It  was  Ben — and  Jack,"  she 
cried. 

"Shore.  Your  hunch's  correct.  An'  it  couldn't  be 
no  wuss!" 

Columbine  tried  to  see  his  face,  the  meaning  that  must 
have  accompanied  his  hoarse  voice;  but  she  seemed  going 
blind. 

"Then — then — "  she  whispered,  reaching  out  for  Lem. 

"Hyar,  Miss  Collie,"  he  said,  in  great  concern,  as  he 
»  3*9 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

took  kind  and  gentle  hold  of  her.  "Reckon  you'd  better 
wait.  Let  me  take  you  home." 

"Yes.  But  tell— tell  me  first,"  she  cried,  frantically. 
She  could  not  bear  suspense,  and  she  felt  her  senses  slip 
ping  away  from  her. 

"My  Gawd!  who'd  ever  have  thought  such  hell  would 
come  to  White  Slides!"  exclaimed  Lem,  with  strong  emo 
tion.  "Miss  Collie,  I'm  powerful  sorry  fer  you.  But 
mebbe  it's  best  so.  ...  They're  both  dead!  .  .  .  Wade  just 
died  with  his  head  on  Wils's  lap.  But  Jack  never  knowed 
what  hit  him.  He  was  shot  plumb  center — both  his  eyes 
shot  out !  .  .  .  Wade  was  shot  low  down.  .  .  .  Montana  an* 
me  agreed  thet  Jack  throwed  his  gun  first  an'  Wade  killed 
him  after  bein'  mortal  shot  himself." 

Late  that  afternoon,  as  Columbine  lay  upon  her  bed, 
the  strange  stillness  of  the  house  was  disturbed  by  a 
heavy  tread.  It  passed  out  of  the  living-room  and  came 
down  the  porch  toward  her  door.  Then  followed  a  knock. 

"Dad!"  she  called,  swiftly  rising. 

Belllounds  entered,  leaving  the  door  ajar.  The  sun 
light  streamed  in. 

"Wai,  Collie,  I  see  you're  bracin'  up,"  he  said. 

"Oh  yes,  dad,  I'm — I'm  all  right,"  she  replied,  eager 
to  help  or  comfort  him. 

The  old  rancher  seemed  different  from  the  man  of  the 
past  months.  The  pallor  of  a  great  shock,  the  havoc  of 
spent  passion,  the  agony  of  terrible  hours,  showed  in  his 
face.  But  Old  Bill  Belllounds  had  come  into  his  own 
again — back  to  the  calm,  iron  pioneer  who  had  lived  all 
events,  over  whom  storm  of  years  had  broken,  whose 
great  spirit  had  accepted  this  crowning  catastrophe  as  it 
had  all  the  others,  who  saw  his  own  life  clearly,  now  that 
its  bitterest  lesson  was  told. 

33<> 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

"Are  you  strong  enough  to  bear  another  shock,  my  lass, 
an*  bear  it  now — so  to  make  an  end — so  to-morrer  we  can 
begin  anew?"  he  asked,  with  the  voice  she  had  not  heard 
for  many  a  day.  It  was  the  voice  that  told  of  considera 
tion  for  her. 

41  Yes,  dad,"  she  replied,  going  to  him. 

"Wai,  come  with  me.     I  want  you  to  see  Wade." 

He  led  her  out  upon  the  porch,  and  thence  into  the 
living-room,  and  from  there  into  the  room  where  lay  the 
two  dead  men,  one  on  each  side.  Blankets  covered  the 
prone,  quiet  forms. 

Columbine  had  meant  to  beg  to  see  Wade  once  before 
he  was  laid  away  forever.  She  dreaded  the  ordeal,  yet 
strangely  longed  for  it.  And  here  she  was  self-contained, 
ready  for  some  nameless  shock  and  uplift,  which  she 
divined  was  coming  as  she  had  divined  the  change  in 
Belllounds. 

Then  he  stripped  back  the  blanket,  disclosing  Wade's 
face.  Columbine  thrilled  to  the  core  of  her  heart.  Death 
was  there,  white  and  cold  and  merciless,  but  as  it  had 
released  the  tragic  soul,  the  instant  of  deliverance  had 
been  stamped  on  the  rugged,  cadaverous  visage,  by  a 
beautiful  light;  not  of  peace,  nor  of  joy,  nor  of  grief,  but 
of  hope!  Hope  had  been  the  last  emotion  of  Hell- 
Bent  Wade. 

"  Collie,  listen,"  said  the  old  rancher,  in  deep  and  trem 
bling  tones.  "When  a  man's  dead,  what  he's  been  comes 
to  us  with  startlin'  truth.  Wade  was  the  whitest  man  I 
ever  knew.  He  had  a  queer  idee — a  twist  in  his  mind — 
an'  it  was  thet  his  steps  were  bent  toward  hell.  He  imag 
ined  thet  everywhere  he  traveled  there  he  fetched  hell. 
But  he  was  wrong.  His  own  trouble  led  him  to  the  trouble 
of  others.  He  saw  through  life.  An'  he  was  as  big  in  his 
hope  fer  the  good  as  he  was  terrible  in  his  dealin'  with  the 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

bad.  I  never  saw  his  like He  loved  you,  Collie,  better 

than  you  ever  knew.  Better  than  Jack,  or  Wils,  or  me! 
You  know  what  the  Bible  says  about  him  who  gives  his 
life  fer  his  friend.  Wai,  Wade  was  my  friend,  an'  Jack's, 
only  we  never  could  see!  .  .  .  An'  he  was  Wils's  friend. 
An'  to  you  he  must  have  been  more  than  words  can  tell. 
.  .  .  We  all  know  what  child's  play  it  would  have  been  fer 
Wade  to  kill  Jack  without  bein'  hurt  himself.  But  he 
wouldn't  do  it.  So  he  spared  me  an'  Jad^,  an'  I  reckon 
himself.  Somehow  he  made  Jack  fight  an'  die  like  a 
man.  God  only  knows  how  he  did  that.  But  it  saved 
me  from — from  hell — an'  you  an'  Wils  from  misery.  , ,.  . 
Wade  could  have  taken  you  from  me  an'  Jack.  He  had 
only  to  tell  you  his  secret,  an'  he  wouldn't.  He  saw  how 
you  loved  me,  as  if  you  were  my  real  child. . . ..  But,  Collie, 
lass,  it  was  he  who  was  your  father!" 

With  bursting  heart  Columbine  fell  upon  her  knees 
beside  that  cold,  still  form. 

Belllounds  softly  left  the  room  and  dosed  the  door 
behind 


CHAPTER  XX 

NATURE  was  prodigal  with  her  colors  that  autumn. 
The  frosts  came  late,  so  that  the  leaves  did  not 
gradually  change  their  green.  One  day,  as  if  by  magic, 
there  was  gold  among  the  green,  and  in  another  there  was 
purple  and  red.  Then  the  hilltops  blazed  with  their 
crowns  of  aspen  groves;  and  the  slopes  of  sage  shone 
mellow  gray  in  the  sunlight;  and  the  vines  on  the  stone 
fences  straggled  away  in  lines  of  bronze;  and  the  patches 
of  ferns  under  the  cliffs  faded  fast;  and  the  great  rock 
slides  and  black-timbered  reaches  stood  out  in  their 
somber  shadses. 

Columbines  bloomed  in  all  the  dells  among  the  spruces, 
beautiful  stalks  with  heavy  blossoms,  the  sweetest  and 
palest  of  blue-white  flowers.  Motionless  they  lifted  their 
faces  to  the  light.  Out  in  the  aspen  groves,  where  the 
grass  was  turning  gold,  the  columbines  blew  gracefully  in 
the  wind,  nodding  and  swaying.  The  most  exquisite  and 
finest  of  these  columbines  hid  in  the  shaded  nooks,  star- 
sweet  in  the  silent  gloom  of  the  woods. 

Wade's  last  few  whispered  words  to  Moore  had  been 
interpreted  that  the  hunter  desired  to  be  buried  among 
the  columbines  in  the  aspen  grove  on  the  slope  above 
Sage  Valley.  Here,  then,  had  been  made  his  grave. 

One  day  Belllounds  sent  Columbine  to  fetch  Moore 
down  to  White  Slides.  It  was  a  warm,  Indian-summer 
afternoon,  and  the  old  rancher  sat  out  on  the  porch  in  his 

333 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

shirt-sleeves.  His  hair  was  white  now,  but  no  otherr 
change  was  visible  in  him.  No  restraint  attended  his 
greeting  to  the  cowboy. 

"Wils,  I  reckon  I'd  be  glad  if  you'd  take  your  old  job 
as  foreman  of  White  Slides,"  he  said. 

"Are  you  asking  me?"  queried  Moore,  eagerly. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  so." 

"Yes,  I'll  come,"  replied  the  cowboy. 

"What  '11  your  dad  say?" 

"I  don't  know.  That  worries  me.  He's  coming  to 
visit  me.  I  heard  from  him  again  lately,  and  he  means 
to  take  stage  for  Kremmling  soon." 

"Wai,  that's  fine.  I'll  be  glad  to  see  him.  .  .  .  Wils, 
you're  goin'  to  be  a  big  cattleman  before  you  know  it. 
Hey,  Collie?" 

"If  you  say  so,  dad,  it  '11  come  true,"  replied  Colum 
bine,  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Wils,  you'll  be  runnin'  White  Slides  Ranch  before  long, 
unless  Collie  runs  you.  Haw!  Haw!" 

Collie  could  not  reply  to  this  startling  announcement 
from  the  old  rancher,  and  Moore  appeared  distressed  with 
embarrassment. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  you  young  folks  had  better  ride  down 
to  Kremmlin'  an'  get  married." 

This  kindly,  matter-of-fact  suggestion  completely 
stunned  the  cowboy,  and  all  Columbine  could  do  was  to 
gaze  at  the  rancher. 

"Say,  I  hope  I  ain't  intrudin'  my  wishes  on  a  young 
couple  that's  got  over  dyin'  fer  each  other,"  dryly  con 
tinued  Belllounds,  with  his  huge  smile. 

"Dad!"  cried  Columbine,  and  then  she  threw  her  arms 
around  him  and  buried  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"Wai,  wal,  I  reckon  that  answers  that,"  he  said,  hold 
ing  her  close,  "Moore;  she's  yours,  with  my  blessin'  an' 

334 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

all  I  have.  .  .  .  An*  you  must  understand  I'm  glad  things 
have  worked  out  to  your  good  an'  to  Collie's  happiness. 
.  .  .  Life's  not  over  fer  me  yet.  But  I  reckon  the  storms 
are  past,  thank  God! .  .  .  We  learn  as  we  live.  I'd  hold  it 
onworthy  not  to  look  forward  an'  to  hope.  I'm  wantin' 
peace  an'  quiet  now,  with  grandchildren  around  me  in  my 
old  age So  ride  along  to  Kremmlin'  an'  hurry  home.'1 

The  evening  of  the  day  Columbine  came  home  to  White 
Slides  the  bride  of  Wilson  Moore  she  slipped  away  from 
the  simple  festivities  in  her  honor  and  climbed  to  the 
aspen  grove  on  the  hill  to  spend  a  little  while  beside  the 
grave  of  her  father. 

The  afterglow  of  sunset  burned  dull  gold  and  rose  in 
the  western  sky,  rendering  glorious  the  veil  of  purple  over 
the  ranges.  Down  in  the  lowlands  twilight  had  come, 
softly  gray.  The  owls  were  hooting;  a  coyote  barked; 
from  far  away  floated  the  mourn  of  a  wolf. 

Under  the  aspens  it  was  silent  and  lonely  and  sad. 
The  leaves  quivered  without  any  sound  of  rustling.  Col 
umbine's  heart  was  full  of  a  happiness  that  she  longed  to 
express  somehow,  there  beside  this  lonely  grave.  It  was 
what  she  owed  the  strange  man  who  slept  here  in  the 
shadows.  Grief  abided  with  her,  and  always  there  would 
be  an  eternal  remorse  and  regret.  Yet  she  had  loved  him. 
She  had  been  his,  all  unconsciously.  His  life  had  been 
terrible,  but  it  had  been  great.  As  the  hours  of  quiet 
thinking  had  multiplied,  Columbine  had  grown  in  her 
divination  of  Wade's  meaning.  His  had  been  the  spirit 
of  man  lighting  the  dark  places;  his  had  been  the  ruthless 
hand  against  all  evil,  terrible  to  destroy. 

Her  father!  After  all,  how  closely  was  she  linked  to 
the  past!  How  closely  protected,  even  in  the  hours  of 
most  helpless  despair !  Thus  she  understood  him.  Love 

335 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

was  the  food  of  life,  and  hope  was  its  spirituality,  and 
beauty  was  its  reward  to  the  seeing  eye.  Wade  had  lived 
these  great  virtues,  even  while  he  had  earned  a  tragic 
name. 

"  I  will  live  them.  I  will  have  faith  and  hope  and  love, 
for  I  am  his  daughter,"  she  said.  A  faint,  cool  breeze 
strayed  through  the  aspens,  rustling  the  leaves  whisper- 
ingly,  and  the  slender  columbines,  gleaming  pale  in  the 
twilight,  lifted  their  sweet  faces. 


THE   END 


Zane  Grey's  Thrilling  Novels 

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Lost  Wagon  Train 
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Code  of  the  West 
Robber's  Roost 
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Arizona  Ames 
Sunset  Pass 

The  Shepherd  of 
Guadaloupe 

Fighting  Caravans 
Wild  Horse  Mesa 
Nevada 
Forlorn  River 
Under  the  Tonto  Rim 
The  Vanishing  American 
The  Thundering  Herd 

Wanderer  of  the 
Wasteland 


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The  Call  of  the  Canyon 
The  Hash  Knife  Outfit 
To  the  Last  Man 
The  Mysterious  Rider 
The  Man  of  the  Forest 
The  U-P  Trail 
Wildfire 

The  Border  Legion 
The  Rainbow  Trafl 
The  Heritage  of  the  Desert 
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Light  of  Western  Stars 
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ELLERY  QUEEN 

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Halfway  House 
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JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN 
Cy  Whittaker's  Place 
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Thankful's  Inheritance 
Cap'n  Warren's  Ward 
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LLOYD  C.  DOUGLAS 
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FRANCIS  H.  BURNETT 
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THE  CASE  OF  THE  SUBSTITUTE  FACE 
THE  CASE  OF  THE  DANGEROUS  DOWAGER 
THE  CASE  OF  THE  STUTTERING  BISHOP 
THE  CASE  OF  THE  CARETAKER'S  CAT 
THE  CASE  OF  THE  SLEEPWALKER'S  NIECE 
THE  CASE  OF  THE  COUNTERFEIT  EYE 
THE  CASE  OF  THE  VELVET  CLAWS 
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Breath-taking  stories  of  quick  action  and  adventure  on  the 
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today  —  its  blazing  feuds  and  ruthless  laws  of  survival. 
These  yarns  are  packed  with  the  kind  of  romance  and  action 
you've  been  looking  for. 

FIVE  FURIES  OF  LEANING  LADDER 
TROUBLE  RIDES  THE  WIND 
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FLYING-U  STRIKES 
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CHIP  OF  THE  FLYING-U 
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Run  of  the  Brush 

Border  Breed 

For  Honor  and  Life 

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Brand  Blotters 

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The  Broad  Arrow 

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by  RAFAEL  SABATINI    I 

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As  with  Joseph  Conrad,  English  is  his  adopted  tongue.  The  son  of 
itinerant  opera-singers,  he  was  born  in  Italy.  Educated  in  Portugal 
and  Switzerland,  he  now  lives  in  London.  He  has  rescued  the  his 
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CHIVALRY 
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